a curved knife lays on the table
as a fire crackles
and the wood-smells
fill our mind

the cold looks into our home
with disinterest

you lay
stretched out in the bed
a woolen blanket wrapped
around your form
and
I cannot see your
face

I see this scene
as clearly as I see these
words flow from my
fingers
but I cannot
see your face

maybe there’s reason
for this

I look at the log walls,
the books stacked on the
book shelf made of raw
timber,
the pattern in your quilt,
your face

but I cannot see it,
I cannot remember it

I wonder constantly
when this picture shall
be complete