A Whittle of Words... <br />Sitting, slumped in a chair, <br />On a wooden porch <br />And under the sun <br />That, moving slowly, like a brushfire, <br />Across this steamy afternoon, <br />Burns the underbrush, the dead, twisted leaves, <br />Of my depressed thoughts, <br />That leaves an open clearing. <br /> <br />With nothing done and nothing left to do! <br /> <br />I am absorbed by this moment <br />And open to each one that trails after: <br />All, reoccuring shapes in nature; <br />Echoes of the same first sound <br />Come from the whittling of mere words, <br />like a piece of wood; <br />Its shavings, fall to the ground <br /> <br />As so many crumpled pieces of paper. <br /> <br />It is in the shaping, the carving, <br />The very paring down of the fat; <br />That the art, itself, disappears. <br />And the value of nothing remains <br />In the palm of my red, overworked hands: <br /> <br />And it is this gesture, an open hand, all that I, humbly, extend to you... <br /> <br /> <br />John T Tansey 06/10/07 <br /> <br />Copyright ©2008 John Thomas Tansey <br /><br />John Tansey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-whittle-of-words/
