Poem: Man of Tools

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,
light.

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.

Tom

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s