She wore the shiny badge of one whose days are filled with trial and loss and harm and destruction
The harshness and struggle of lives disrupted
Days of broken souls and broken laws
In neighborhoods both upscale and rough
His hands wore the callouses and scars of many years creating
of many years building
of many years making
of creating smooth beauty from rough-cut timber
or with the glorious grain of well seasoned woods
She didn't know what brought her to that shop that day
She was wandering, looking, escaping
Seeking a thing not imposed upon her by that shiny badge she wore
She didn't know that was what she was doing
She was just being, just drifting
He worked in a world of sawdust and glue
She worked in a world of dusty streets and lives coming unglued
Drawn by a thing she could not name she abandoned her shopping, crossed the street, and entered that door never noticed before
Creation, making, her soul cried, These I need!
Her fingers trailed over the slickness of varnish, the warm smoothness of wood.
This was regular, this was sensible
Pieces coming together instead of whole lives falling apart
And then he emerged from an adjoining room.
