The Old Tools
The old sewing machine is in remarkable condition.
Every bearing oiled and silent,
the movement easy when you press the pedal,
needle bobbing, cotton thread carefully penetrating
the linen cloth, stitching the two pieces together,
a well-cared-for machine.
There are faster ways to do the work.
More efficient ways.
There are new tools that will do more,
almost miraculously, amazing things
done without thinking, without connection.
But you prefer the old tools. The old ways.
Pen on paper. A hand saw. A solid hammer.
thought and work. A different kind of creation,
making something new from something old.
Oil paint instead of computers.
Simple recipes. Your grandfather’s forge.
You prefer the old tools. Faith. Love.
Kind words. A self-control that is out of fashion.
You have a belief that there is a connection
in them, a connection between what you create
and your own hands and heart that is too often lost.
But then, this is your life. You have finally learned
you can live it your way.
You bring your own value and light.
Your own tools. Some will l love the less-than-perfect
products of your handwork. Others will find the flaws,
but miss the magic.
About this poem.
A poem about doing things the old way, about simplicity, about old-fashioned values such as love and kindness, about….. Well, poetry is never about one thing.