Old Tools and Your Little Secret
Tools hang on the wall. Your grandfather’s.
Hand tools. Well worn.
Somehow still your favorite,
even if everything you build with them
is slow in its finishing.
Because it is slow.
You feel each joint and cut differently.
They have meaning. Time and history.
An unseen beauty,
your little secret.
About this poem
The picture is not of my grandfather’s tools, which sit in a box in my project room. But I have at least one of each tool in the picture. I have a weakness for slow work. Some people would not call it a virtue. But I do.