Whittled wooden board
scorched and warped
rough and unpolished.
Everything has fallen from you
that could pad a bone,
you are not easy on the eye
or to the touch, but
I loved the way the wood flakes fell
through my fingers
until you were revealed to me.
You are close to me,
years I've
to take you from the drawer
of my darkness, as if
till now
your existence was
just between us.
Now maybe they will caress you,
put out a hand
to examine a book
in which you splendidly
are commemorated in my poems.