Poem 2.

his tools were him

his tools were him ..... the augur, awl and vise, the plane, the wrench and

drill ..... his fingers touched them all with the magic of master skill and

craft ..... his basement bench, the homemade bench with rancid smell of oil-

soaked pine and odor of varnish, grease and paint ..... pungent scents from a

special place which assured the promise of jobs well done, and things that worked

as they were supposed to work, and pieces that fit as they were supposed to

fit ..... in perfect order with perfect grace and precision skill ..... the tools, the

tool shelves, the boxes of tools, the stainless trays, the wooden shelves with a

hundred cubby holes for hardware stuff and welding tips and gears ..... and the

cases for screws, the bins for nails and bolts and wire, the mason jars for washers,

nuts and brads ..... the timbered bench that said ducal dominion of all fine tools

and home of carpenter and master mechanic and maker of things that

celebrated pride and quality ..... the space that spoke of man and male and

workman and creator of fine things ..... can bench and metal speak ..... can

hinge and gear and handled hammer yearn for touch and feel and performing

joy ..... if tools could talk and tell of life, would they praise the man and yearn to

know again the strong grasp and warm hands ..... within the blink of a star

god's eye, those tools that knew the strength of master's hands are now on my

bench ..... through the magic power of gods in time and space his tools now speak

in fervent tones ..... they tell of pinewood bench and vise and bolts and

brads ..... they talk of meticulous skill and keen knowledge and dedicated

care ..... they praise the man and maker, and say over and over what pleasure

they once knew ..... and bring to life the presence of Dad

By Don Ulrich
©2006 USA

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