Carpenter Hands

Hand in hand, resting

near the fire and in between

the comings and goings,

I trace his rough, stiff fingers

with my own papery ones, study

salty palm lines like pine rings,

circle the swollen splinter inside

his palm like a hopeful seed,

as if dropped by an ancient tree

in the dark wood of him

to become him if it could. Fingers—

once broken, now bent-healed twigs

of knotted knuckles and raspy,

calloused tips— surge buds,

strange blooms: whole homes,

warm rooms, sunny domes,

my skin. A burgeoning.