Thank you for joining me as I write out my gratitude, framing it through the lens of poetry. Today is Day Three.
(Joining Tweetspeak Poetry for their poetry prompt this week: Whittles and Wood)
Tired
Shavings
Sit piled at his weary feet
By his well worn boots that match his face
Leathery lines
Deep crevasses carved by time
No amount of Botox
Were he so inclined, would mend and fill
The valleys of his face
Fitting
As they mirror this, his art
He carves
Dying
Art form
Knives and men
Paired on benches
Fade into the once was
What is it
About carving something from nothing
Must be close to godliness
Bringing form from void
Something from nothing
Bit by bit
Boney fingers
Sweeping along the piece of Hickory
Cryptic
Curling crooked
Like a school boy practicing his cursive
Bit by bit
He whittles away, aiming not for perfection
But simply to pass the time
His shavings blow like thistle seeds, released
By the currents, backdraft
Of the 5:04
He’ll return
Find his place tomorrow, smooth impression
Of his own backside
Made by years of sitting here
Tired of his retirement
Weary from too much rest
Rocking forth and back
To the sounds of
Metal scraping down the tracks
Carrying the 9 to 5’ers home
He and his Hickory
Left to sit, count the minutes
Count the days
Whittle away
What remains
Memories, bit by bit
Fade in messy piles by his weary feet
His Hickory chips
And the tail lights of the 5:04
Dim
He’ll form something from the void
Aiming not for perfection, but simply to pass the time
And pray to God
To grant him rest
(He is so tired, he is so very tired)
Of whittling his life
Away
elizabeth w. marshall 