The Carver

His ancient hands carve with the worn knife.
Creating beauty from a piece of bark, this is his art.
Twisting and turning the knifes dulling edge,
Calloused fingers brush of the newly cut side...

Dropping the blade from his overworked fingertips,
He reached across the table to pick up a cup.
Tea leaves were secure at the bottom, soaking in the water.
Their flavor being stolen as they floated freely around when he went to take a sip.

Pausing to glance at the surrounding scenery, he began to dream of older times.
His tired eyes examined each tourist, shopper, and overexcited child.
He thought back of his ancestors, who had lived only enjoying this art.
He remembered the gardens where they had lived, with peace and tranquility.

Turning back to his work, he sighed at the wooden figure.
He ran his hand over is surface as he brought it to his nose.
Smelling the carved piece, the scent of wood overpowered his senses.
As he closed his eyes to picture his life back at home, he cried his nightly tear.