I sat and watched
his tanned, wrinkled hands
(light lines appeared, beneath the sawdust
here and there
where bleeding had long since stopped).
He gripped the silent barking
but biting saw,
placed the free hand on the creamy oak block
like comfort on a heavy-burdened shoulder.
Rocked and rowed
pressed and pulled
to cut away the useless
Now the saw remains
like the sawdust on the floor.
How I’d give the world to see my carpenter
with scarred up hands and sawdust covered pants
For my carpenter was more beautiful to me
than a potter with his clay,
a painter with his paint,
a fisher on the lake
Carpenter, carved deep in memory.