He was content all those years
carving his children from wood.
Two nails banged in for eyes
and you’re done he told them.
Twice wed he was, his first
lost in childbed, six
that survived out of infancy.
One son he named Walk in the Lord,
another Go Forth. Taught them his trade
that they make provision.
Working late, kept by his lamp
to prayer and close study.
Frowning under the lintel.
All his life the same music,
patching and stopping up draughts
through sixty some winters.
So much to ask out loud for.
The dark space in his mind
he called God told him so:
He was content anyway, at nightfall
hunting the wild birds of the river,
a man in his own space.
Or so we believe. That he died
blameless and lonely I’m sure of.