Wooden worries

Try tossing them to me

See, I've fine hands for holding

Burnt, broken hands for holding

Delicate woven oak branches

Here sanded to the rough hue

Of sandy lead so that you

Could have moment to bed the

Serenity or serendipity 

Or whatever you called it

I'm no good with those names

I seem to be the only one to forget they exist

I have the hands gnarled enough to be roots

Even though I carved them to fly