A Carver's Tracks
His rough hands slide over smooth cherry wood,
freshly sanded to sooth his sore finger pads.
Callouses on his pumping fingers glide the blade
through the wood grasped firmly in fingers of another hand;
a hand with two band rings stacked
He takes his blade and impales the surface,
digging his trench in red.
His heart stabbed,
who needs viens when the heart refuses to pump?
And this condemned heart
twists it's blade.
And the carver's tears race in
The tracks that he has made.