Wrapped in wrinkles,
A calloused hand,
Rough and cracked,
Works to expose beauty,
Carving out the pieces,
With his mastery,
Raw; like the man at work.
Age painted on his face,
Line by line,
But beat for beat,
The heart of a boy.
A dimpled smile formed through the repetition of a silly punch line.
Gray hair, sweeping just above the furrows of his brow.
Deep, unending eyes. Filled to the brim with love and compassion.
Looking up, transfixed on the One who formed each flaw.
Jolly, rosy cheeks flushed from a hearty laugh.
The finished character reflects the old carpenter better than any mirror.
Mr. Fix-it shakily stands and brushes the dust from his blue jeans & suspenders.
A style branded with humility.
His sole accessory, imprinting a 60 year tale upon his crooked finger.
A hallow knock sounds, as his cane counts the stairs ascending before him.
Pausing briefly he looks back at his handiwork.
A collection on a shelf,
More than figurines,
But memories,
Life’s true keepsakes.
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