sorry, stuck (for a terminal rhyme)

There's something that I can't do by myself
even half so well as it goes with you 
so inclined to participate, fully in 
and keen to begin and go on
by turns in a light and summery
springy wood as the screw
turns descendingly down
through grain, I'm biased
I know. But all such cares
as are taken together
redeem all pains. It's 

conversation, I mean. 
So what 
might you else 
have thought or intended, 
there? From such inference 
we imply what we read 
between every line 
ever done indeed. 

Which is natural, 
but quite off the point. 
Let us talk this out 
until noses aglow 
back in perfect joint 

we have come to know
has always awaited us 
here. Oint Oint