The history of women and woodA Poem by Delmar CooperA response to a suggestion by C.D. CampbellA History of Women and Wood A boy, years on the farm Barely notices time, But each year the notch where the horse Rests his long jaw on the manger And feeds, grows smoother and deeper. The hoe handles, never sanded, Bought rough and used rougher, Are yet now smooth. Free of the least imperfection. I hear your voice, Feel it glide like water into my heart. I mount the stairs to your apartment; The oak trod shallow in the tread. The newel, the banister, fall like silk Beneath my hand. So why, when I touch you Am I surprised at such smooth perfection?
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Added on February 26, 2018Last Updated on February 26, 2018 AuthorDelmar CooperTrussville, ALAboutI write- a little. I don't write to reinvent the wheel, or discover fire. I just drag along from sentence to sentence hoping for a spark. more..Writing
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