The Whittler Poem by Alexander Beebe

Deliberate strokes across a wooden canvas, no story will be written for he seeks only solace. The day behind him he climbs the porch saddle, the knife is his refuge the wood surrenders the battle. No direction he needs the end does not matter, each stroke brings him joy and occasional laughter.

Smiling eyes gaze through the screen window, another trophy she will admire or, as he sometimes prefers, just kindling for fire. Once builder of men, road and machine, his hands hardened by time, his back bent by disease. His grip still serves him, his eyes still see, each swipe of his knife takes just what it needs.

His son’s generation and the one after that, have no use for a whittler his knife or his craft. Life is too busied too hurried they say, one idle pause will cost you the race. Tears in his eyes he pockets his knife, steps off his porch saddle and sweeps up his pride. Maybe they’re right he says to his wife, what good is a whittler, what purpose in life?

God put you here she said with a smile, your life has been full, with purpose and style. Just like the oak which stands tall and unyielding, you now whittle her branches so she can keep living. A whittler of wood our savior was too, he gave of his branches his life to renew. Beaming with life he knew she was right, off to his saddle to sharpen his knife.

Ninety was he when he lay down his knife, hundreds of branches now whittled with life. Resting next to the oak which was his dear friend, they gave to each other over and over again. His wife soon to follow, would lie next to him, new branches of shade caressed by the wind.

The next generation and the one after that, now pause to reflect what was taught with what’s left. Time has now taken the youth from them too, but they grin at each other with saddles anew. Knives in their holsters they cling to that branch, which brings forth great life, renewed and refreshed