The Woodcarver Poem by Eric Cockrell

the Woodcarver works
in the morning stillness,
with chisel and blade
and an eye for intimate detail...

sunlight sifts through the windows,
time caught, a butterfly in the hand
that's careful not to close...
no extravagant movements...

nothing left undone...
life, a bare bulb, almost
too hot to touch...
the hands of the spirit tell all...

with a gentle blade,
sharp as death, yet allowing...
He unveils your heart
in the stillness of an empty room.

the Woodcarver works...