The Carver

The shavings fell like a gentle snow
and collected in drifts around his feet
as father sits silently for hours, hunched over,
absorbed in his work, oblivious to the goings on
outside of his shop, and not caring.
Inside this lifeless block is a bird
longing to be free. He says looking up at me,
"I'm going to help it", but slowly . . .
slowly he picks at the wood lodged in it's plumage
and fashions flat surfaces with a file
patiently grinding. Gently he pushes his knife,
making adjustments too subtle for the eye to detect
until he raises the wood to his lips and blows
away the dust, leaning back to inspect
the bird he has brought just a little closer to life.

by Mark Smith