Gilbert

Gilbert smiled in bits of black through specs of broken teeth. His smile reflecting a fractured heart the horse had kicked beneath. A horses hoof to shatter them that Gilbert looked the worse. Where people often kept their distance should they be next to curse. His shining eyes left brightening. Their smile escaping out. His kindred spirit heartening where beauty left no doubt. His bold black glasses framing grace. A statement of his work. A sider he had worked the trades both lively and with perk. He often traveled south a bit to rest throughout the year. A little trailer he called home was more or less his cheer. A place he liked to work alot and tinker in the shed. A home he called French River where his spirit lived it's said. He often talked of history. and books he'd have to read. The many missing palm trees that the climate lost to need. And once he took up baking with molasses more his thing. While trying to keep sugar out where health concerned was king. He even did some leather work and sold a purse or two. complaints from all the neighbors saying it's too loud to do. A harder worker there was not. He never skipped a beat. When times he rested for a bit were never much a treat. for Gilbert worked to feed his mind where play was thought a waste. And always kept the standard high for life and all it's taste. He finally died a humble man. In spite of his obsession. Where work became a lighter love than God and his possession.