A Whittle of Words... br Sitting, slumped in a chair, br On a wooden porch br And under the sun br That, moving slowly, like a brushfire, br Across this steamy afternoon, br Burns the underbrush, the dead, twisted leaves, br Of my depressed thoughts, br That leaves an open clearing. br br With nothing done and nothing left to do! br br I am absorbed by this moment br And open to each one that trails after: br All, reoccuring shapes in nature; br Echoes of the same first sound br Come from the whittling of mere words, br like a piece of wood; br Its shavings, fall to the ground br br As so many crumpled pieces of paper. br br It is in the shaping, the carving, br The very paring down of the fat; br That the art, itself, disappears. br And the value of nothing remains br In the palm of my red, overworked hands: br br And it is this gesture, an open hand, all that I, humbly, extend to you...