May 2014
He had been working for days
A simple man
With rough hands
An eye for beauty that rivaled
Botticelli's
Dukes and Duchesses had paid well
For flattering statuary that would
Live on in granite repose
Chisel and hammer tapped away
Sweat poring his brow
He worked in silence
Though the square below him
Played the symphony of daily life
It was his hands that listened for him
He may have been born deaf but cherished he was
Treasured
By a woman who could have no more
God's gift she had prayed for
Then thanked for every day after
He knew the story
Lived her gratitude
As he finished the final curve
Placing tools on the side table
He stood back to survey his work
Realizing it was his greatest piece yet
For it was the brightest memory
Of his mother
In her face he saw God's grace
A simple man
With rough hands
An eye for beauty that rivaled
Botticelli's
Dukes and Duchesses had paid well
For flattering statuary that would
Live on in granite repose
Chisel and hammer tapped away
Sweat poring his brow
He worked in silence
Though the square below him
Played the symphony of daily life
It was his hands that listened for him
He may have been born deaf but cherished he was
Treasured
By a woman who could have no more
God's gift she had prayed for
Then thanked for every day after
He knew the story
Lived her gratitude
As he finished the final curve
Placing tools on the side table
He stood back to survey his work
Realizing it was his greatest piece yet
For it was the brightest memory
Of his mother
In her face he saw God's grace
