Carve Me A Bed

Keep your Valentine from the grocery store.
That thing of nothing,
That anything for anyone.

Carve me a bed.
Thatís right. Yes, I did say that.
Carve me a bed.
Charge straight into the heart of the woods
and fall to your knees in the leaves
and pray fervently to be shown our best and highest fate.
Ridiculous, you say.
What are you talking about.
But I continue.
I speak to your soul, who knows you better than you do.

Yes, and our bed-wood is a massive oak struck by lightning.
Open and blackened and smoking and lying in wait.
And you, like the heroes you hang on your walls
make a sling of the belts you wear
and drag off a huge and heavy hunk of that smoldering oak,
cutting a deep, fertile trail in the earth behind you,
rescuing the rest of our destiny.

And I on my power horse,
in my gauze dress
hear a saw in the distance,
hear a hammering and follow it,
knowing, hoping, scared, sure.
And I draw near and look over the gate
and there you are after all
straining and sweating and striving
to be original.

And I step inside and we smile.
We know what weíre about here.
And you saw and I sand and you sculpt and I stain.
And, at long last, we are spent:
we are bloodied and blistered and beholding
the beginnings of our hand-hewn love-bed.
Work weíre proud of, that solders us together.

You laugh.
You mock.
Itís myth.
Itís exhausting.

Yes, who would ever take the time
or expend such energy
even if they were a demi-god.
Even if there were such a blackened-oak, lightning-split tree.
Even if they could carve.
Or carry.
Or love so much.

Donít you see,
it is an exalted feeling I want,
an idea, a world with wings,
a travelling inward and skyward,
a trying, a failing,
a blooming, a burgeoning into being.
A Work of Art, of course.

No, please....
Keep the card with the pallid sentence pledging forever.
And the rose you bought in the mall.
And the chocolate that tastes like wax.
And the mildly funny valentine.

Carve us a bed
in your head
with all your heart
and then maybe weíll see what we mean by