Hand Crafted

So was it when my life began, a time
of sabbatical, of building, of plans.
I sat up on his desk, my dolls in a line
while father designed his hopes of this land.
I watched him carve and leave shavings behind
with promise and passion I only now understand.
From mind to paper to hands that would build
his dreams before me, becoming fulfilled.

I passed him down his hammer and nail
moving up from stair to new finished stair
I handed him up my little paint pail
tap shoe teetering on my tip toe chair.
For eighteen years on that banister rail
I grew too cool to help father repair.
It’s long since passed since I left that home
With hand hewn mantle and hand laid stone.

Each fall and spring he flies two thousand miles
His body strong, and mind still sharp he comes
to work, to build, to cut, measure and tile
Book shelves for me, a swing for my sons
they hold his tools, toddle about and smile.
Some day when this man can work no more
he’ll sharpen our scissors like fathers before.


..........

Survivor Poem
Form W: Ottava Rima
Trigger 27: "So was it when my life began"