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Then, a branch waved in the wind off from the oak in my yard,

I reached up and yanked it from the tree from which it grew.

Remember marrow cracking, I twisted the skin from the tree limb.

I walked back to the porch with the branch and sat in my chair.

The wood was grey, angled, old but underneath there was life.

I began carving from that small, old piece of oak.

Years ago, my father made the chair on which I sat,

He taught me how to whittle.

Now, I think about the branch, and its winding angles.

The years have gone, and I still sit in that old chair.

I find we end up with life,

We end up with what we see,

What we whittle out,

What we give away.

That day, I had whittled a small cross. As Dad gave me rest with that old chair,

I gave that gift to my son, I made that cross, that he may rest.

From that Great Oak at our family’s home.

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