The Carpenter

Begins as an apprentice gifted with enthusiam journeying towards a master blessed with rheumatism.
Each line carefully etched on his face by the true artist. Face weathered, body tanned and bent, knuckles swollen and bones eaten.
Carefully crafted my Mother Nature.

Eyes reflecting from a frosty azure sky, and with a friendly smile the carpenter greets scorn and guile.
Opens his treasure chest, a box of magic tricks.

Body tired, he whets his oil stone, sharpens his wit.
All tools he must keep fit.
A perfume of oil created from wood shavings, sawdust, sweat and toil.

Rhythmic tools and smells resonte through contours of his mind. Every nail punched with precision, saw cut structured with rhyme. All discrepancies polished and sanded yet perfection never granted.

The carpenter meditates the secrets of his trade; patiently reminiscing the masters way.
Arrogance of youth now far away mortised and tennoned to a distant memory.

Attentively he covers his saw like a knight sheaths his sword. Placing his chisels into a black leather worn pouch and encasing his whet stone in rosewood.
All maternally and secretly dovetailed.

Like a sculptor the carpenter meticulously inspects his work. A smile of satisfaction brightens his aura as only his kind know. For now his work unker lock and key.