One Whittle At a Time

Yes…

People still whittle.

Back country,

Suburbs,

Farm and ranch,

Carrying clasp knives for the moment of peace.

Yes…

They sit on tree stumps,

Porches,

Allowing shavings to pile at their feet.

Yes…

Norman Rockwell dogs keep a close eye on them

As they live out a hot day

With chin on paws,

Sighing as the stick gets shorter,

And shorter.

Yes…

There still exists

Uncluttered gathering of thoughts

Ready for contemplation

As a final whittled indulgence for oral meditation

Becomes a focus on the little things,

Or perhaps a gigantic thought

On one gigantic thing.

Yes…

Come dark,

Dog

Real or imagined,

Drags his weary, real or imagined, body off the porch,

His favorite earth hole waiting,

As the master appears to have just enough stick left

To slowly,

Methodically,

Metaphysically,

Pick his teeth.

So complete

This simple endeavor

For the consideration of thought.

Might everyone have a way

To whittle their day of complexities,

Pressure,

Unappreciation,

Into a quiet moment to reflect?

Such a rhetorical question deserves of course,

It’s obvious answer…

Slow down.