Kathleen Ripley Leo
I have a love of hammers: they strike when the iron’s hot,
opening up seams and sashes where air flows, and water seeps.
Once, a famous hammer hit the moon camera just right
and we on Earth had our first look at the moon’s alien landscape.
Love those hand planes: the ones that make wooden planks
smooth and bright, like the hand plane my father used on cedar
to fit the curve of mother’s sun kissed legs.
Love those pliers: they can loosen the grip of cautious steel,
and tighten the clutch of bolts, or pluck nail by nail with ease.
This is a place of remembrance,
of practiced serendipity, where knowledge is arranged
deftly and sweet, to be passed onto the little ones.
Each offering is kind and clear,
unlike some parts of our lives where senseless rules blur lines.
Imagine being lost and finding the key to your life
just waiting for you in a drawer or bin, or on a shelf,
in its own purposeful and peaceful place.
We find hope at the hardware store,
that with some foresight and the right tool for the job,
all life’s mysteries will be solved
in quiet duty and promise.