Purpose

This is a poem I wrote which describes the bittersweet joy of creation, and the need to allow a purpose to be realized.

Purpose

The rocking chair sits in his workshop
Illuminated by a beam of light
Which enters through means of its own
To find and reveal his precious labor of love

Smooth lines, crafted with care
His fondness for the wood apparent
In every detail, every curve
Hand rubbed oil fragrant and earthy

Who will sit in his chair he wonders
As he stands there, scratching his chin
He hopes it will be a new mother
Cradling her infant who lies snug at her breast

He hates to see it leave, this his opus
His crowning achievement in life
Will they appreciate his long hours
Spent creating something useful from a single piece of wood?

Maybe he should keep it for himself
Just this once
But no, the chair has its purpose too
Once created, that purpose must be fulfilled

Better to be mistreated or abused
Than to lie languishing in his workshop
Promising everything
Providing nothing

And so with regret he watches it leave
Hauled off by the merchant who will place it in the window
Hanging a sign on its back, hiding some of his inlay
Local artist, handmade

It says so much, yet explains little
As the expectant mother
Bends forward to peer through the glass
Her hand resting softly on her masterpiece