The tall carver of wood who was once there

Standing over his pure molding

Thought a week or two was fair

To create the next best thing.

 

A great day’s work and his back might’ve ached

Of soreness a throat can’t swallow.

His folks who’ll never forsake

Begged “you shan’t work ‘till tomorrow!”

 

His ached back turned, he held a lung devil

Two years of that was a long while

To leave the world disheveled.

Once more he left with a smile.

 

Works done nonetheless, such nice things to see.

T’was wood that took weeks off his breath,

From statues made earnestly

To lung devils, papers of death.

 

The statues, horses of mahogany

Stay his favorite brown color,

A shade thought by his many

Reminds of the man’s honor.

 

He still comes back every late October

As a tall brown moth passing by.

Its free spirit gives closure

That his free spirit too flies high.