I am a drawer.
Small curves in the wood
define my face.
My mouth only moves
as the knots and grains
slide over time,
swelling into moans.
And those moans are my voice.
Cracking with the age I cannot possess
aching for you to open me,
find all those things left alone
ones out of sight
and covered with dust.

The motion of my body has been stripped away
from my bones,
leaving the straightness of
right angles
and wood glue to hold me.
I long to move.
To feel my blood run through me
the heat on my back
over my leaves.

My varnished sides
sticky with moisture
the gravity of humidity,
and the age I cannot possess
are what make me stiff,
just to fight you if only for a moment longer.
Make you think,
maybe I am the lost thing.

To fit me into the others,
my limbs,
my beloved extremities
who budded and grew to touch
the other trees,
to feel connected
in our feet and hands,
now lie as ashes in the fire
of an old mill.

For this, my heart has slowed.
The beat moving small air
and it pushes you
slightly
to open me
just once,
and look for something
lost.
I am never what you are looking for.