The Maker

Ask me at night, and i’ll tell you of the Maker,
Not in the sky or the gold leaf pages of chapel benches
but the movement of the divine through the will of the day
The virtue of a man’s work, when he tires from the tilling,
The sweet voice of a woman, who loves him because he tries
Synchronicity of fate and magic, finding you always where you need to be,
The Maker, is the shaper, carving a relief from a roughened timber
And spirit, breath and color, just flotsam wood imbued with life
The Maker is looking behind and seeing the consequence of the unfurl
It’s in a name, and a reputation, an honor for brother, a love for Sister
Not given or taken away, a skin worn with care
Allied attractions, and a purpose of the dream
Heartened travels in the unknown, a stranger in a strange land,
Coming back to the roots of the soul, and seeing yourself there
The same as when you walked away, from the Maker