The Carver
The wooden chips
float to the floor
at each stroke of the blade.
The gnarled, old hands
shape the stick of wood
with an expertise
only acquired with time.
The metamorphosis
of the wood
is slow and subtle.
but as time progresses
a figure seems to
come alive.
A figure
of an old sailor
smoking a pipe
appears
as the old man whittles away.
Done.
The figure
is set down
and a pipe
is lit up
and placed in the lips
of the old sailor.
Another name for this poem could be “Self Portrait” … that would ruin the twist at the end.
That really captures the spirit of it. Thanks for posting.