The carpentry smelt of trees and incense.
My father spread white Vinavil in grooves,
inserted steel nails with two short, intense blows.
I imitated him, little hammer, between my hands,
his tools in miniature… I dreamt about the Trojan horse.
Then in the evening I hid myself among sawdust:
“There is no safer place in the world”,
he said, with open arms.
Nowadays I take no cover but in his eyes
(in the calm before the storm); piece by piece
I tidy up our carpentry.
