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.