Joseph

He stands for a moment,
Around his feet the curled shavings
Of sweet pine,
Runs his calloused hand
Along the smooth grain
Of a board which is ready
To be cut and fit
Into a table or cabinet,
Or maybe into a cradle.
He sighs
At the thought of it.
A journey lies ahead,
Long, difficult.
Not just the tiring trip down dusty roads,
But the life beyond:
This caring, this ache in his heart,
For the young wife
Full of child,
The tending of a son
Who will never have a carpenter’s hands.
He, too, is full of child,
Something struggling to be born
In him.
He looks out of the window,
Sees the sun brimming over the trees.
“Good weather, at least” he thinks,
And slings his pack over a shoulder.
This he can do,
Get them to Bethlehem.
The rest will have to come later,
The cutting and fitting
That will make him into a father.
He closes the door behind,
Steps out into the morning.