Whittlin’


A stick is a stick,
Unit it isn’t.

Granddad knew.
People still whittled then.
Clasp knives had a purpose.

On porches and tree stumps
Wisdom did sit,
Piling shavings on the ground.

Heads on paws,
Dogs blinked occasionally,
Keeping close watch on creation.

Sticks got shorter,
And shorter,
Then very short.

For many a granddad back when,
Whittling was intense,
Sculpturing the day’s purpose,
Rendering heavy thoughts ever light
As dogs, children, passersby,
Exchanged one’s everyday simple thoughts.

And so it was.

There was precision and reason in my grandad’s focus,
Even as he suffered through a day’s crunch,
Cram,
And grind,
Anticipating the sculptured big stick
Becoming his prideful little stick,
Later.

As late night fireflies danced,
He rocked on the porch,
Explored his mouth’s meaty stowaways of the day,
Savoring the best parts
Only he and his sculptured toothpick could appreciate.

The dog, now with raised head and tail wagging,
Fantasized something chewier and bigger for his dinner.