A Christmas gift

the wooden sparrow
will fall and break
into pieces.
and then you will cry,
but the hands that made one
will make another.
the tree of life,

can it die? can it rot?

what matters: do you want to buy another?
the new carving, the new wood,
another smell; a story of nights spent dreaming of you
and yet you be the unknown; but you are the mind
my soul, the woodartist's goddess
and the human he has sought to know always;

and sometimes, all the toys will come
with labels and stickers, with price tags
and yet where is that wooden device which was made for tales
which wants warm hands, and does not want to be bought;
yes, it will be difficult to find it,
and yes, you will want to touch it, you will want to touch the wood

from the tree of life.