wooden birds

 

Solid and unbreathing,

wooden birds are stacked as firewood,

and his loose hands, tired from carving,

red from the harsh soap and stiff brush, 

cleaned and raw,

will soon rest in the folded moments of a nap.

 

their round eyes stare at him across

the dust and tools on the table,

as he picks at the wood dust beneath his finger nails

and talks to each as a parent sent to

retrieve them from the perfect wood.

 

in the meeting of hand and tool,

he replaces the bits of living lost over the years.

lovers on rocks and children through doors,

teachers and taught

and the birds become cared for

they take on a name,

reminisced with

and released.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

This word portrait seems to be of a man who has seen a lot of years and a lot of life. One senses he has also seen a goodly number of losses in his time and now he is pretty much alone. His carved ducks are his main companions now and we are left to wonder how happy he is. This spare, understated work leaves us to make our own decisions as to that, but warns us in its own way not to jump to conclusions. Well done.

[Ken e Bujold]

Hanford, I was riveted by the imagery and wordsmithing of you fantastic poem. I found myself being transported back in time to days of my childhood when I would sit with my grandfather and watch as he worked his magic on wood, hands in constant motion, each tool an extension of the man.
thank you for the lovely read

ken