Man of Tools
Outside the window, rains.
November cold seeps in the sills,
one of the truths of old houses.
They breathe, and what is in, is out,
and what is out is in
and always in movement.
There is a fire going on the far wall.
Old wood becoming new light, new heat
on a day that feels old as your scars.
They are old, the scars that matter.
The ones without marks on your skin,
the ones that did the most damage.
You have become a man of tools.
Tools that build. Tools that repair.
Your hands and mind work together,
a partnership of time and learning and persistence,
of learning to lose yourself in just that,
the work. And in the losing,
finding. Light. A new day, even on the worst of them,
About this poem
My first therapist was all about tools to help me get through things. I will never be able to thank her enough.