To be raised by one who built things was a gift.
To be raised by one who saw that out of air
A room was made, or pieces of a chair.
The world was known by measurement and heft.
As he grew up, he learned the way to touch,
As if the world held secrets in its clutch,
Which he would then reveal. He grew to see
That in the commonplace there's mystery.
A tree would speak of unbuilt shapes within it
The way that Jesus knew the infinite.
He worked in words, and handled them like wood,
Creating lasting work that he called good.
He shaped the clouds into his father's face
For those who had before seen only space.