He has beautiful hands, this mason.
Dirt and clay cake around his nails.
A white sickle scar, and a handful
of freckles adorn his fingers.
The mason lays one brick at a time,
from the first row at my feet:
each individual constellation
in shades of red and earth.
The mortar he spreads on
even, and careful. His hands
are thick, and strong, their rivers
highlighted the pallor of mortar.
I catch one last glimpse of him,
serene face and careful posture
as he evens a stroke with flourish
and places the final brick to seal me in.