Building

My father taught me the basics of carpentry

strike here, like this,
hand closed, firmly tight,
arm raised to full height.
feel the weight in hand,
swinging freely as it lands,
strength flowing through the swing;
metal on metal, hear the ping.

the nail is not the aim.
it’s down into the beam
that the hammer drives:
one—two—three tries.
carpentry is mind and muscle,
sweat, grime, dust and hustle.

measured trigonometry,
practical geometry,
taking raw wood, clay, and steel,
shaping chaos into something real.

gentle homes are built with rough hands.

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Author’s Note:
I wrote this poem years ago and rediscovered this week. My father was a farmer, and a carpenter to cover the farming debts.
As a teenager, I spent the summers, working alongside my father on build sites. Those moments weren’t full of grand conversations, but we built something lasting. Both in the literal and figurative sense.
This poem is in memory of him. And for anyone who’s ever taught something by doing.

Measure twice; cut once.