Miraculous and Hidden

The workbench sits in a back corner of the barn,
well-worn and tinted with old oil
and marks of hammers that missed the mark.
The tools too are old. Slow perhaps, but proven,
and with a special cache that only comes
from getting hands dirty in the creation, and repair
of broken things.

No one cares to see this work.
They prefer to see only the results
and they are poorer for their chosen blindness.
There is no appreciation for the soul of a thing,
which is never perfect and always miraculous,
hidden away in the dark corners.

About this poem.

I have always preferred fixing things to tossing them and buying something new. The things repaired and restored are rarely perfect (I am not a great craftsman) but they have stories and soul.

I have always preferred fixing people to tossing them aside and ignoring the brokenness. There is depth and a different kind of strength in those who have suffered and still stand that I admire, that I identify with.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom

PS: The picture was taken in a back barn at the Hancock Shaker Village in Hancock, Mass.