A hammer and chisel, on the wood he would chop
Molding and shaving
The wood taking shape
Until to his surprise formed a recognizable face
He stopped and he stared
There was no mistake
It was her
He was silent
His voice desperate to speak
But the sound and the movement of his mouth
Failed to meet
In the moonlight by window
He held her up high
His eyes could not contain
Tears burst from inside
Who was this lady?
I am sure you would like to know
She was his mother
Lost many years ago
In times of aloneness
When sadness embarks
The hands often make secret deals with the heart
Sometimes on paper, sometimes out of clay
Expressions appear
When we don't know what to say
For this Toy maker his sorrow was being alone
Tonight, out of wood, his mother came home
This poem was probably that last poem you wrote on my site before you up and disappeared. Each time I read it, it brings back memories of you. I hope someday you come back and see how much we love you.
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