the tinker

There he sat,

Stooped double over an old umbrella,

Tinkering over a loose joint,

Mouth compressed in concentration,

Deft fingers wielding the tools of his trade,

A master of his craft,

Clad in tattered shirt and faded shorts,

Dusty, calloused feet speaking louder

About his weathered slippers;

He scratches his matted hair

And pauses to change tools…

He speaks to pass the time away,

Telling about his wife, their children,

The joy they bring to him,

His hopes for them, his dreams,

While his hands and fingers continue

Dancing the threads and needles,

The pliers and the wires…


A few minutes more, and he straightens,

Hands over the healed parasol,

In exchange for the paltry sum,

And heads away

Whistling in absent contentment,

Knowing he has earned his family

Another night’s dinner.


think on this

there are not enough words

to convey enough thoughts,

to open your eyes.


i cannot say i would like to spend

long moments with you,

but i sure would like to learn how to.


i don’t think i can say:


i am prepared to die

for you…


but wouldn’t it be wonderful

if i can?


i think i believe these things

about you:


that you are wonderful,

that you are worth heavens,

and that you are unforgettable.


but i know only one thing:

that i do not know

why my thoughts dwell on you

in painful colors…

scented by your smile.