May I love you?

Sap, oh yes sap. You know, I learned woodworkers do not often like to use sapwood. The sap creates a light streak, and the woodworker likes uniformity, perhaps? I wonder how sticks of centuries past, sticks who held up mud and manure and sand and straw, sticks who broke the ground for a seed to fall, would feel about their sapwood being called too weak or light. I am sappy and write poems (and whatever you call this) about love and the adequacy of sapwood and bent twigs and knots and hollows and rot. Sticks, wood: I love your all of the above, as long as we’re not talking crooked in the conniving or ripsaw-biting-mean sort of way. Here “dovetails” would fit loosely in this wood-based beat, but we’re not discussing joinery as the result of love or any large alteration to our woods and sticks. Oh, love and sap, sapwood, or the log or tree altogether.

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