by Denzil Ferguson

A sapling grew on Sinkin' Creek
On a brushy, rocky knob.
An old man chose it from the rest
For a very special job.
Beneath that rough, gray, scaly bark
Is a sinew tough and good.
And the old man rives and splits it out
Into strips of pure white wood.
He makes the hoops and ribs and splits
From that little white oak tree.
And with his hands, he twines and weaves
Till a basket comes to be.
It is made to last a hundred years,
And the old man long since gone.
But in the hoops and splits and ribs,
His handicraft lives on.

Denzil Ferguson
Copyrighted