A thought-provoking rhyming poem about how some people handle their grief.
|His rough hands caressed the hard wood,
turning it in his time-learned, expert way.
One tear rolled down his cheek; it could
not be held back this tragic day.
With deft cuts, the blade in his hands
removed unwanted wood he could see
with trained eye. His belief a man’s
not to cry made this a necessity.
The wood took shape as a giraffe,
the final animal he had required
for a crib mobile to bring laughs
for his grandson. He felt so tired.
Yesterday held such great promise --
his son’s wife with a baby to be born.
Today he could find no solace.
A stillborn birth left him forlorn.
His wife came. “You should come inside.
Working for hours isn’t good, you know.
You need to show you care the baby died.”
His body shook; his tears did flow.
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