Her hands are pear-sized,
always petite, well-shaped,
gloved now in leather,
cradling squares of slate,
gray and mottled red.
Her spine is straight,
with waist bow-tied
by apron’s knots,
fabric bright gold
with seams of burnt umber.
Eyes fixate on dark line
drawn with a straightedge.
She lines up the lead mark
with a diamond tipped blade,
adjusts the guide bar, retightens
a knob or two, squints again,
sees a path through the cut.
With unperturbed pace,
her right hand stretches
forward, and click
motor belches,
bellows, shrieks,
zings, grinds out
a foul racket.
She ignores
the stench of noise
and shepards each damp tile
into its next dimension,
invents a new
geometry, bestows
a proof
for this father’s
empty nest.
Copyright 2011 by Tom Flynn
