The Work of Mattering

Light comes through the window. Just enough
to use the tools spread on the bench. Just enough
to do the work you are called to.

Often, it is not romantic, the work.
It is hard. Sometimes precise. Sometimes lenient.
At times, you injure yourself doing it.

The tools are worn. You have done this a long time.
Enough to do it well, but not so long
that you do not occaisionally make mistakes.

It is slow work. Flashes of inspiration
followed by the hours of casting, carving,
finding the right color or word or touch.

The work never seen. The lessons and learning
never seen. The heart put into it never seen.
But hopefully, what emerges brings joy

to someone.

About this poem

About my work, all the different things I do. About our lives. About wanting to make a difference, even unseen. I have been blessed with good work to do, even the invisible parts.

The picture was taken at the American Farm Museum in Cooperstown, NY.

Tom