Mindsinger

The old man climbed on the carousel

with trembling step and slow.

No one who watched him standing there

could be expected to know

The depth of his love for the charming beasts

who waited in stately stride;

To carry the children on their backs,

a token for a ride.

He chose a seat on a chariot

pulled by a prancing fawn,

And smiled as the children laughed and waved

to their parents on the ground.

The organ commenced a rousing tune,

the creaking giant stirred.

The old man’s eyes grew misty and soft

and he spoke, though no one heard.

“I shaped you with care and my hands still know

the dimensions of every line.

How it feels to follow the tangled curve

of mane and trappings fine.

They call me a master carver I hear.

They marvel how a man could know

Enough to bring such creatures to life

and set them spinning so.

I wonder what they’d think if they knew

my amazement matches their own.

That I marvel myself at the magic I wrought,

the beauty of grace and form!”

The ride waltzed on to the cadence sweet

as the old man dreamed and dozed.

And no one knew who rode that day

on a gilded chariot throne.

Illions, Dentzel, Muller, Carmel?

Were they all dreaming there?

Or was it Morris, Parker or Louff,

Herschel, Zoller or Dare?

We never know who rides with us

and shares our world so fair.

What memories flow from a carver’s hand

and drift on the summer air.

But those who love the carousel

know a secret shared by few.

That each carver rides the carousel

as surely as we do.

The music stopped, the ponies paused,

the laughing children ran

To waiting arms and other rides

and no one saw the man

As he walked into the afternoon

with trembling step and slow.

No one but the ponies

who whinnied a soft, “Farewell!”