The Man and the Boy

Two twisted, broken things lay on his bed.

He sat there pitifully, and cried, “They’re dead!”

I could not understand what made him cry.

“They are but broken dead things,” said I.

“Those things were nothing more than earth;

They were but pieces, and of little worth.”

Hardened, I looked him in the eye.

“If you must, you can just say good-bye.”

He looked at me with sadness, and with pain,

And shook his head. “These pieces still remain!”

I gazed upon him, wondering what he,

So very young and ignorant, could see.

I frowned down at the broken little things,

And took them in rough hands, deciphering.

I’d held them in my hands, when I was small,

And lay back, starry-eyed, in awe!

I’d reached out for the child’s dreams that spanned:

Haphazardly, unmanaged, poorly planned.

Since then, I now could understand.

I’d worked hard, shunned those things, become a man.

But taking up those twisted, broken parts,

He showed me how they once had been an art.

Together, they had grown so close, and strong,

That nothing bad, or evil could go wrong.

There was some sentimental touch of hope,

Some crafted bit of love, a gentler scope.

It suited what the child had desired…

It seemed so out of place for one retired—

And yet, twas then I found myself recall

How one had often looked upon the small.

It was the little things that one had raised,

Had watered, carefully nurtured, often praised…

What great void had I acquired

That I had left him out when I aspired

To build, to toil, to wear away,

All those great things…yes, be a man—ok.

Things so much better than the boy.

Things that I could never quite enjoy.

I looked upon the broken things and smiled.

“I’m sorry for putting down things you compiled.

You’re right. The pieces do remain.

And though they’re broken now, and greatly stained,

I’ll work with you to fix them, if I can.

Because, you know—I am a man.”