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A Craftsman's Rhapsody
To Frans

The craftsman's plain glides smoothly past
Leaving trails of golden curls
Releasing from woods hardest heart
A bouquet that fills his world.

The rhythm of each passing stroke
Builds a rhapsody of sound
Beads of sweat fall from his brow
To find comfort on the ground

Muscles flex and then relax
A tiny grunt adds song
Eyes are fixed upon their mark
Avoiding any wrong

Upon the rafters high above
Watching every passing stroke
A sparrow amid soft curls gathered
Joins chorus from its silver throat

A gentle breeze from the open door
Swirls around this peaceful scene
And rolls across the old shed floor
Leaving traces where it's been.


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