The Toy Maker

By Linda A. Copp

The Toy Maker sat and sat
by a dying fire, the only light,
the only warmth, in his tiny shop.
And as he rocked gently, back and forth,
in the rocker,
He'd fashioned so, very long ago.

He thought of what the years had brought.
He thought of what winters he had seen
And the springs which often gave him hope,.
And the summer friendships that often faded
in falls bright colors.

It was a time in early Christmas,
when the houses shivered with the chill
And the hearths burned clear and bright
And the trees garnished all the beauty,
a heart could want to hold.

But, it was a time of anxiety,
a time of fear and frustration,
A time of reflection.
For the Toy Maker wondered
and wondered and wondered,
Why.

Oh! Why this Winter had fallen so, hard,
So, fast, he'd barely had time to think.
The council had said all was well,
everything prospered.
It was just a time of small burdens
for he and the baker
and the Candlestick Maker.

And yet, somehow the Toy Maker
felt it was more,
More than just sacrificing for the time,
More than just his dying fire
and his half forgotten dreams.

He reflected quietly,
his face mirrored the weariness
in his reflection.
And still they said it would pass.
All would be well again.
They were neither frightened nor worried.

But, somehow with so many out of work.
And so, many more yet, to be out of work.
And such a lack of building going on.
And the shortage of copper pennies.
And the hunger that would grow,
Must grow with all this lack.
The Toy Maker wondered
and yet, I guess he knew -
When his toys lay there gathering dust
And even his jack in the box
brought no, surprise.

And the sky hung heavy and gray
That the angel on his Christmas tree.
Had best protect him from the night -
For it was to be a very,
very cold winter's Vigil!

   By Linda A. Copp
©January 5, 1974