Whittler
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69 WHITTLER Say you are angry at your Hands and you cut them off. You make of the green olive-wood New hands with claws for fingers. They will sprout blossoms then, Knuckles, thumbs hiding under bloom. Say you are angry again, you will Carve wooden flowers for your hands. The bees will come there then Confused by your skill, thirsting. Say you are angry, and whittle The little bees, buttons on your stumps. Honey will begin to drip bright And sticky down the skin to your elbows. Say then life is in your hands. The one thing you cannot outlive. J.B. GOODENOUGH ...
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