The Hammer

The hammer came down, a smooth downward swing, one more repetition of a repeated movement, upward swing changing direction to come down on a nail head, driving the nail deeper into the wood, through the wood and joining it with another, one nail after another hammered.

That’s how it’s supposed to be, how it was with my father and with my grandfather, skilled craftsmen both, with years of pounding nails, joining boards, houses, garages, buildings large and small rising up from a pile of boards and bags of nails, the rhythmic swing of hammers and the music of nails pounded. But any carpenter genes, if there be such genes as carpenter genes, were not passed down to me, try as I might to master this skill, the rhythmic swing of hammers, the music of pounded nails, interrupted by me to straighten a nail bent in my pounding, an awkward swing, or to stop and pull it out, starting over, or bending it over, hammering it bent, hoping it wouldn’t show, that nobody would notice, like me, nobody would care, knowing the error of my thinking.

But this one time, today, standing atop a ladder, two boards crossed, the beginnings of a new tool shed, a place to house, to store my tools, tools so infrequently used, so inexpertly handled and cared for, today, this one time, atop a ladder, I had a rhythm going, smooth upward swing changing direction to come down on a nail head, driving it into the wood, through the wood, joining two boards, a rhythm going, syncopated though it might have been, but a steady rhythm, the music of nails pounded.

Confidently I worked.

And the hammer came down, smooth downward swing, one more repetition of repeated movement, upward swing, downward swing … right onto my thumb … and the air turned blue around me, the language unfit for mixed company, the ensuing pain reminding me, once again, that I did not inherit the carpentry genes of my father, or my grandfather, the string of skilled craftsmen ending at me.

3 Nature Poems (because I can't decide)

Great Blue

Crouching, he launches himself skyward,

his great wings lifting him from the shallows

where he fed, slowly rising, this solitary spirit,

steel against the changing light, orange to pink vermillion;

his spindly legs dangle momentarily in his slow ascent,

wings pushing back, caressing the air softly, silently,

and carrying him aloft, westward to the head of the lake –

I have been touched by nature, blessed in his passing.

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Evolution

They have survived for years, millennia,

well past their dinosaur days evolving

into nuthatch, finch, and chickadee,

black-capped, yellow-breasted, barred wings

a-flutter, crowding my feeder, sunflower seeds

purchased locally, locally grown to feed them

now in the winter months’ snow and cold,

these birds flocking to my yard, scores of them,

unbothered by my sitting here watching, rocking here

by the window, warmed by a mug of tea and their song,

feeding them but a reason to sit here,

warmed and watching, surviving, too, evolving.

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The Turtle

It’s a long trek across the road,

so he stops halfway, this turtle does,

where a yellow line would be, if this

weren’t an old backcountry road leading

nowhere important, just home at the end

of the day, or a short jaunt to town;

but it’s dangerous just lying there, as he is,

resting, warm against the pavement, or sunning himself,

perhaps, his hard shell reflecting the afternoon sun,

dangerous to be exposed like that, vulnerable

to a hungry coyote gaunt and lean or the local boys

mean in their late season’s boredom needing relief,

or the summer folk rushing by to catch

the long days left of summer, too soon fading

into autumn’s colors and falling leaves,

folks focused too far to see him lying there, resting and still.

So we stop to hoist him up from behind, carefully held

at arm’s length to avoid his snapping jaws.

But he just pulls into himself, secure in his shell,

here at the lake, as we carry him safely to the water’s edge,

his destination, end of a journey, this ancient creature

still alive by his own good fortune,

and us who share this lake we both call home.

Thy Bountiful Blessings (Oh, Lord)

At supper’s grace, and young, we dutifully bowed our heads,

and, hands folded and tucked under our chins, we gave

thanks for Thy bountiful blessings, oh Lord,

my sainted father going on and on down the entire

litany of gifts bestowed and gifts received

as the smell of my mother’s cooking drifted up

to our little noses, silently sniffing, anticipating

her culinary prowess, an artistry over which she had labored

much that day, but a blessing my father neither remembered

nor mentioned in this evening prayer; and the steam

of mashed potatoes and gravy piled high on our plates

dissipated as they cooled, much too quickly

in his sustained gratitude, prolonged

and drawn out, and I often wondered if perhaps God

tired of it, too, joining us here for a cold supper,

for which we give thanks for Thy bountiful blessings,

oh, Lord, yet again. Amen.

Today, Just Today

This morning was dark, light just beginning to touch the mountains, the mountains merely shadows forming on the Western horizon, grayish-bluish-blackish shadows rising out of the darkness. And these shadows, by the faint morning light of a rising sun reflected back, glowed then rose and pink, a sweet vermillion growing, the mountain snows absorbing and giving back that spectrum of morning light from the East, the soft color of the sun’s early morning ascendance when most of us are just starting to stir and drag ourselves from our warm beds, hot showers, and coffee laden breakfasts, unsure of our own rising; for we are but shadows ourselves, rising out of the darkness, reflecting too, and reflected. And for one brief moment, unnoticed by most, noticed only by a few, awake and up and out, the mountains glowed rose and pink, a sweet vermillion, and reminded me, awake and up and out, coffee laden, reminded me to be alive today – today, just today.