The Whetstone Much could be said for a select edge.
Such was the need for a good stone.
A knife blade, a whittle stick, a fickle hoe.
All for the want of a good stone.
From his left pocket
came the worn whetstone; its center
curved, worn and dark with oil.
When done, back to the pocket.
It's use meant renewal, deliberate
that both stone and metal gave some,
both shaped by the other...
Some a beginning, some an end.
Dad would finish his life
with that stone.
Made the end of any day
seem ample and done.
He left me a fine sharpness
and no less...
my inheritance
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