A picture for his eyes
to rest upon, Face, tilted up
and to the left, smile meeting
the light. Dark Hair, Golden
Glowing in the sun.
A pen for his hands,
paper to hold stories
or poetry, lines
to contain thought.
A toolbox with saw
and lathe; trees to work
into useful things; practical
on deserted planes.
Seed, a seed to sow
his seeds, to grow his fruit
into dripping delicious
delight.
No company; for we know
that his best work comes
when he longs for contact,
is lost in the reality
of human shortcomings.
Transitions 