Handyman
Feb 4 2009


I felt like a small featherless bird
shaking hands;
thin-skinned, hollow-boned,
his big warm paw
enclosing mine.
This man
who can fix anything,
build from the ground up.

The fingers are thick.
The palms hugely callused,
prints worn down.
And the good dirt
that won’t wash off.
He learns by watching.
He believes
he can do it as well as the next guy,
or will, next time.
His muscle memory guides him
and his patience keeps him trying.

Idle hands are the devil’s plaything,
but he is not theologically inclined.
He builds for no one’s glory,
admiring his handiwork
with quiet pride.
And when his hands are eventually stilled
he will leave something of substance
behind.

A tight sound building.
A sturdy fence,
settling, as the land subsides.
And a garden, turning to weed,
that will sprout, as stubborn as him
next spring.