For nights now,
he'd been unable to sleep.
Even in his dreams, he lay awake,
he was chasing that coy little look she'd
turn her head to give him...
you know, with her skirt wafting in the wind
as she, in mid-stride, would turn and give him that smile,
that smile that says 'come and catch me, and I am yours'
'catch me soon, as my season is short and always I
turn back into the moon...'
Finally, coaxed by the spirit of her nightly visitations,
he went out into his workshop,
walking across the moonlight and shadows
out into that space where he made magic...
where things were born like little children
from the grip of his worn out hands.
He looked about until he found the most
beautiful piece of wood he possessed...
purple-heart wood...cut from the center of the tree,
where it is strongest, most solid and lasting...
ebony with the color of red,
and he took her heart,
and he took his heart,
and he fashioned one heart out of them.
He cut it,
he carved on it,
he shaped it,
sanded it smooth and then
he polished it, like glass in the midnight light.
The next morning
he put it into his pocket...
and carried it around with him everywhere he went.
I do remember one thing...
it took him hours and hours,
but by the time he was done with it,
he was so involved,
he didn't know what to think.
He carried it around with him for days and days,
playing little games,
like not looking at it for a whole day,
and then looking at it...
to see if he still liked it.
He did!
And he would then slide it back into it's pocket,
being careful not to scratch it,
and go back to sleep...and dream once more.
