The scent of fresh wood
is among the last things you will forget
when the veil fails.
The scent of fresh white wood
in the spring sap time:
as thought life itself walked by you,
with dew in its hair.
That sweet and naked smell
kneeling woman-soft and blond
in the silence inside you,
using your bones for
a willow flute.
With the hard frost beneath your tongue
you look for fire to light a word,
and know, mild as southern wind in the mind,
there is still one thing in the world
you can trust.
—Hans Børlig (Norwegian Wood, Maclehose 2015)
Those are some tidy stacks of wood!
Funny, the poem reminds me of how when people think of ice cream treats that are served with a little wooden spoon, it’s not the flavor of the sweet treat that lingers in the memory, it’s the tang and texture of the wood.
Julie, since I read your comment about popsicle sticks, prior to manning a woodsplitter in the U.P. with a dear friend, as I smell the wood, all I can taste is that popsicle stick.
Our stacks of split wood are not as aesthetically profound, but they still brighten the eye, and provide a real sense of satisfaction because it’s the fruit of our labor. Thanks for stopping by.