Carpenter’s Love

With her hands scented of lavender
she took the wooden arms of a carpenter,
and crafted ornaments of clumsy wooden blocks
like the waters forge faces to white, weathered rocks.
Becket bled on a stone underneath a cross,
and yet something fair was born during a day of divine loss.

I once stood on the courtyard of the cathedral,
matched the white walls with my boiling, bubbling upheaval,
and wed coincidence and fate; I pronounced “it must be”.
What had to be were the gestures that I believe
were spurred out of a moment that I did not see
until I read a poem underneath the pink petals of a tree.

Were her hands scented with lavender,
or was that the craft of this foolish carpenter?
It matters not. As Easter dawned
some dear weight and I formed a bond—
while I leaned against a birch—
and wished Good Friday to be prolonged.

By JPV

Copyright May 2006