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