Hammer and Nail
I used to think
that all wood was still a tree,
alive and strong
branches supple and willing to support
leaves, fruit,
two little girls full of dreams.
Within the cracks
in the walls
lay stories
but stories of strength and valor
and the smallest branch a magic wand
for back up.
I used to think
that all wood was still a tree,
that even when its branches
were hacked away
to feed fires,
it was only to lie fallow
to come back stronger than before.
A polished table,
I thought,
surely,
still held a tree somewhere inside
even if it's been
chopped
down
carved
polished
dried.
And a person, too
I thought
must surely still be a tree
after the fruitless winter months
grow again
taller
stronger
freely
Our strength must be in our roots
from which we
may never move
on
and when we grow old,
once again
will children come
to play
for nothing, I thought,
no time
no space
no fire
no flood
no nail
could kill the tree within.
But now I see the hammer and the nail
for beneath the nail
we are wood,
not growing stronger
any longer
for our own strength is the hammer
and love, and roots
the nail
and a nail doesn't hold
brittle wood together,
no;
for every blow splinters
and love sharpens every blow.
And trees don't grow from sawdust
or from tables in a junkyard pile
with the legs cut off
and the polish shining
uneven, and
a little too bright in the
hammering
sunlight.