Sorting The Tools

With such fashioned metal and wood, he didn’t mean to leave his mark, imprint “Tam.” Mostly he was building shelter, earning wages, securing premises. Also,

he was one to impress his will on the present, not the future. That rubbed handle nonetheless bears an inadvertent mark only his palm

could have left. This other handle’s darkened by days, by years, of perspiration, his specific salts. This mechanism here— he repaired it himself. Note his deliberate,

improvised way, the practical jazz of rural labor, making things keep functioning when parts aren’t available right away. This workshop is cold.

Outside, oaks have dumped all leaves and acorns, stripped themselves down to lithe gray-brown muscle, ready for Winter. A bear broke down

the biggest apple tree. This duty of ours makes us sorters sad when we’re not smiling. Mostly this is tedious work, though occasionally

we recognize we're awed by what the tools report about how difficult, Steady, and determined his work was in his time.