Poem: Whittler

Whittler

by Patty Cole

He picks up a small block of elm from Jack’s Lumberyard.

He runs his fingers over the smooth surface, musing like God 

moving over the waters of Earth perceiving it’s void before

breathing into lifeless matter.

Whittler brings the block to his face, smells the fresh cut wood.

He projects his imagination then reaches for his six-blade

and shaves off the eight corners of the block then begins carving

out his intentions.

Whittler picks up a straight blade and soon recognizes something human,

two crowns that will become heads followed by shoulders, arms, torsos,

legs and feet. He sees one is taller, the second, shorter. 

He plays god with his knife.

Soon the shorter becomes woman and the taller, man.

Woman’s back is to the man. His arms are around her waist.

Her shoulders emerge, then her body. A simple white dress adorns. 

Woman is now wife, man husband in this symphony of body parts. 

He slices strands of hair on the top and back of their heads,

leaves faces blank. He then sculpts her right hand 

to rest on his left forearm. With her left hand 

she holds an apple to his mouth.

Man and woman are finished. Whittler puts down his knife.

He rests in his easy-chair with a Miller Lite.

By: Patty Cole                  

4/18/19