My Father’s Workshop

It is here you learned the power of tools,
how these small bits of iron and wood
could create, build, restore and save,
how the right tool made anything not just possible,

but a joy;
how there was a sensuousness
in the feeling of old wood under your fingers,
in the magic of discovery and the miracle of repair,

and now, a generation later you are still repairing,
yourself foremost, but at times,
despite your age and flaws, like a well worn tool,
others as well.

About this poem

The picture IS of my father’s workshop. And I have a lot of my father’s, and grandfather’s tools. Old fashioned. Imperfect. Worn. And used regularly to make and fix.

We’re like that. We should never think we need to be perfect to be a blessing to others. At time it is our worn-ness and our brokenness that allow us to do the best work for those in our lives.

Tom