The Work Unseen
There is light coming through the window.
Not much, just enough
for you to spread out your tools
and do the work.
It is slow and tedious, the work.
Things break and at times your fingers are clumsy
despite years of learning your craft.
The work. the day to day maintenance, here,
out of sight, in the almost darkness.
About this poem
It is the work we do on ourselves, often out of sight, that is important, not just for us, but for the people we touch. And mostly, no one sees it.
The picture is from the inside of a Blacksmith’s shop.