Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The sound of a carver sharpening his knife
weaving in with the
tap, tap, tap,
of his worn out, well traveled, shoes
sitting flat on the squeaky board of his porch
Creak, creak, creak
The carver's rocking chair sung
along with the
hum, humm, hummm,
surrounding his humble home
that carries out the echo of the carver's voice
Swish, swoosh, sigh
played the wind for the carver
with the carver's wood
clickitty, click, clank
falling on to the porch with the rest of
the wood shavings rustling against each other
But when he is done
the carving comes out to be
something none other than a
melody.
The Carver's Melody
