“THE WOODWORKER AND THE DREAMER”
Holding him is like carving wood,
raw beauty untapped
as I shape our present with precision,
callused pads and chisels,
hand saws and carving knives,
he dreams of a future
wild and untethered, a digital fairy tale
from a single childhood promise
where creation is limited by edges,
infinitefor a woodworker, and his dreamer
Adorable, right? Swoon-worthy, even. But this untitled poem is on the next page:
If love is a tree
who planted its seed?
Each branch an extension of us,
wild and twisting, fortified by years,
each leaf a memory,
verdant, thick, and full.
What happens when the last one falls?
are we still rooted?
Were our seedings too young—
two seeds planted to split,
in nutrient-rich soil.
Trees don’t survive deforestation—
buds bloom again
The question mark at the end is erased, but I can still see it.
“Remember what Nonna used to tell us every spring when she would plant her garden?” Matty says as he grabs my still-shaky, mummified hand, and I remember how Nonna would sit Topher, Matty, and me down and try to get us to help and listen as she methodically taught us about the resiliency of seeds. “She would say, ‘Seeds may seem fragile and small, delicate, but they have a hard shell that protects them. They are built to survive. And when they’re in the right conditions, that hard shell breaks open, and something beautiful grows.’ You’re a seed, Fielder. You just gotta bloom. Make yourself undeniable.”
How do I do that?
I pull the washcloth off, and the ring slides with it. Dark red liquid coats the exterior now. I curse and furiously polish the ring.
“Field, it’s fine. Just run it under water—”
