The Wood Carver

The Wood Carver



The forests rejoiced at his birth;
long had they waited for this time.
Foretold by spirits of the earth,
they nurtured him into his prime.

The wind in branches sang to him
the lullabies of his first years.
Light danced upon each leaf and limb
He grew to manhood without fears.

He learned the magic of the glade
and knew the life of bark and wood.
His skilled hands read what should be made.
Within the forest, life was good.

Each day he'd follow his routine
guided by spirits with no name.
His arms were strong, his eyesight keen,
and soon he garnered wide-spread fame.

As humans, we each have a flaw
that blinds us from the truth we know.
The words of praise began to gnaw;
he succumbed to pride and ego.

That day he strayed; ignored the voice
that kept him on the righteous path.
Deep in he went, by his own choice,
ignoring voices filled with wrath.

In a small copse, he found the prize;
a perfect tree that glowed with life.
Yet only glory filled his eyes
as he pulled out his carving knife.

He watched the blade, as in a dream,
sink in the tender wood. Its sap
oozed forth in a somber red stream
before he recognized the trap.

As in the past, he saw the sin
too late to stop the damage done.
The sudden silence, now within,
told him forever he'd be shunned.

"Never again!" The vow was made
giving his heart as surety.
He spent his years tending the glade
choosing quiet obscurity.

In time, he returned to the place
and tended the tree with a mark
as it grew, and soon not a trace,
remained in its silvery bark.

No longer an artist in wood
each day lived he thought himself blessed.
He worked hard, the best that he could,
until night would force him to rest.

Each night by the fire he read
of the world that he'd never see.
Irony would make his smile spread
at the wood now carved diff'rently.

He never again heard the call
but quite often he would observe
the beauty that held him in thrall
and that he now sought to preserve.

In time, as all living things must,
he entered the unending sleep.
Though dust always returns to dust
he's welcomed back into the keep.

His grave lies within hallowed ground
with nothing for others to see.
His final forgiveness is found
in a seedling silver-bark tree.


Notes:
An entry for "Two-in-One Poetry Contest"  [13+]
Prompt/Form: A narrative poem in tetrameter.
Line Limit: 80
Line Count: 64

Thank you for taking time to read my words. I would appreciate it if you took a moment and left a comment. Your reaction, impressions, criticisms, - yes, even encouragement or praise are all equally welcome.

Ken