Blank
Father was a quarryman, hands at home
On a welded wheel, fingers stiff waiting on sun
To clear the lip of the pit, an artist is his own right
Content to read the grain through an emery palm
Leave the rest to rain and wind. Mother on the other
Hand was a chiseler with a syncopated mallet
No stranger to fluter and veiner, fine dust felting
Her coffee, laboring late, ankle deep in drifting flake
Humming as she whittled to the quick.
One morning, seeing my chance, right hand freed
In the wee, wee hours, I hacked out feet and a face
Only a mother could love, raking footprints clean as I left.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
Blank
Father was a quarryman, hands at home
On a welded wheel, fingers stiff waiting on sun
To clear the lip of the pit, an artist is his own right
Content to read the grain through an emery palm
Leave the rest to rain and wind. Mother on the other
Hand was a chiseler with a syncopated mallet
No stranger to fluter and veiner, fine dust felting
Her coffee, laboring late, ankle deep in drifting flake
Humming as she whittled to the quick.
One morning, seeing my chance, right hand freed
In the wee, wee hours, I hacked out feet and a face
Only a mother could love, raking footprints clean as I left.
