Poem: The Soul Mixed In

The Soul Mixed In

The light is raw.
A bit too bright. Almost harsh.
The outlines and lines of each item in the room sharp.
Tools. Old things. Almost unrecognizable
and yet somehow, familiar,
a sense that still, you could do the work with these
wooden handles and rough blades.
A bit more time perhaps, a bit more work,
but the work, nonetheless.

Perhaps that is not bad, working slower
with old implements,
a life build on prayers and 19th-century novels,
Gothic cathedrals and rockabilly,
something closer to your grandfather
than your own generation,
a sense of age even when you were young,
that you wanted your hands on your work,
that work had part of your soul mixed in,
or at least, should.

About this poem.

The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Village, one of my favorite museums to visit. I love Shaker furniture and the other things they make. There is a beautiful simplicity to them. And I can relate to their idea that your work should reflect your soul.


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