Hands As Diving Rods

The wooden boy’s eyes discovered tears

when the tiny ballerina in the jewellery box –
dancing before a mirror in lopsided circles -
resisted his advances.

Pain seeped out – oozed in ovoids...

sticky resin slowly slid

down grained cheeks.

His wooden legs rubbed together, 

calf to shin - a cricket crying out

in a lonely summer’s field.

The wooden boy asked his aging father

might there be a sister

to share his difference with.

The hands held up before his face

were old, tired, like tiny trees close to the fall,
suffered little hand quakes.

"Creation lasts only so long," his father 

answered,"before the baton 

must be passed on for the next to make

of it what they will."

Tears continued their fall

as his legs wore patches

in his trousers.

Through summer evenings

the boy tried to uncover the art

of dowsing a child from a chosen log.

Puddled, curled, shaves

of wood

moved out from his feet

and spread across the room -

testament to continued failure.