Carving his way through a big chunk of wood
Call it chunk now, If you must
By the time the carpenter was through with it
It was anything but a chunk of wood
Chink, Chink as he worked his way
Breaking, smoothing, perfecting
Each blow on the chisel, one step to triumph
A frown, then satisfaction
An uncertainty, then a smile for a fraction
Hands rough, skin cracked
His devotion to his work, quite
Something has him held, something he cannot see
Feels it as he stares at his nearly done work
Where would he find the missing piece?
How would he make it complete?