Monday, June 8, 2009

pictures and prose no. 1


They grip a book firm and then tight
his fingers turn pages night upon night.

Eyes filter the page, he reads and takes time
to render each word and unmarked sign,

A mind searching for meaning, then
looking to find truth and understanding.

Fingers follow each sentence, start to end,
his hands flip the page at the corners bend.

Words tell stories that fill his cluttered head,
and remind him of dreams he’s left unsaid;

Of one day building his house in the sky,
a house built by his own hands; a paradise.

I want to know details of his hidden dreams.
Is it a house of stone, or of wooden beams?

Show me pictures take a thousand words or more
tell me why your hands are wounded and torn.

His lips part to speak the undeniable story,
a voice rings strong, a tale of truth and beauty:

"If I could choose - not beams, wood or stone...
I would use my hands to make a house into a home.”

Krista Fleming 1996
picture, cir. aug. 2007

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