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a scene framed in old oak – crafted by a dirty man – whose family lived in the same village for 300 years, all of them farmers but he – he rebelled, drifted away, up a hill to look at the clouds, met an old man with a knife and a smile, and watched as he wittled a thing into life, not that first day but eventually he cut himself but couldn't hide the joy and the pain of what he had learned – to create – his first feeling of control – when he returned home to feed and milk cows and churn butter and sing hymns nothing seemed like forever – he was not his father – he'd move on – and he did – and they're different, but we already knew that – that's how things change – and he never saw the picture that his work held, but they go together, they're what you see now – old, and beautiful, and
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