The old man's hands had spared severity. <br />Time fell weightless as shavings on his knee. <br />He carved a little bird out of stove wood, <br />Fit it for story books as best he could. <br /> <br />Imagination made that sparrow soar, <br />Though vision from his neighborhood was poor, <br />He saw it paint its picture on a cloud <br />And clapped his hands to see a thing so proud. <br /> <br />He knew old bones would never make the air <br />Yet by his proxy he was always there, <br />Imperfect but certifiably, <br />All that a stove wood bird was meant to be.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/weightless-as-shavings/
