If this wood could speak,What would it say?How the years, goodand alike the bad,impressed their thoughts upon its rings?Tales of the harvester’s axewhose mark is seen,pointed opinions of the politicsof the woodpecker’s beak?How it kissed and wed the Earth,and made a green leaf?Or how it helplessly stood by,watching its fallen children die,with the dying of Autumn’s knowing smilein the tightening grip of Wintery guile?Or perhaps it’s inclined to singThe story of majesty, of resurrection,of its kin’s Rebirth,as recounted by its friendsthe rabbits and the birds?I sit at this table, amazed,how it lives on,how it ministers againand providescovering my rain-dampened and chilling feetoffering without requirement or demandMy steaming food and waiting drink.And it is then I am inclined to thinkIf her love could speak,what would it say?Marvel the Beauty and the Truth paired,that this was til now unanswered and unasked,and that Love, like wine,is in wood casked--the questions seem in ways the same,for in Chi’s touch and gentle stepas in her eyes upon my imperfections and becomingspowerful and unobtrusive as a sunbeamsent to Earth’s offspringwho, in return, their bounty multiply, give,in every brick of taste and deedthat gives structure to my homedo I find my food and drink to live,As I shall live shall I rejoyce,for in her every momentit finds its Voice.