Whittling

When whittling on a piece of wood
while at the boil-up fire
The mind across the barrens drifts
to the hills that are much higher
Each knife cut shaves a curl of wood
that gently floats down to the ground
I watch them as each cut I make
and see them falling all around

When whittling on some clear-gained fir
in at the Camp some autumn day
I make some shavings to light fires
for winter mornings, cold and grey
And see the curls 'bout half way down
the splits, full-dried in summer's rays
The energy of sun to be
released on this, a winter's day

When whittling on a piece of wood
sometimes, some form will take a shape
A little boat, a wooden spoon
some oddity that's smoothly scraped
By pocket knife I always use
so many times across the days
To do a chore, to pass the time
when contemplating woodland ways

Why whittle on a piece of wood
you may well think and ask of me
I find it pleases me and so
I do it when my time is free
Down on the shore, or in the woods
or on a night in at the Camp
I take my knife and whittle some
in glow of sun, in glow of lamp

For it is pleasing so to do
it matters not what is the form
Of what the final whittling is
the piece of wood has been transformed
Into something beyond what was
perhaps just a shape to be admired
And I, too, have been so transformed
I whittle, for I am retired

Wayne Taylor
Bonavista, NL