The Old Hand Saw

...for Ted Kooser It belonged to my dad. More antique than useful it lay in my tool box begging to be used. Soaped and sharpened so many times before use, its blade was now dull and lifeless. I took it with me everywhere I went 'til pure gave way to power, and through the years it waited, I could never give it up. The skilsaw superseded; a cold, efficient implement that did as it was told with ne'er a slip. As my effectiveness fell short, my eyes became unsure, my hands bore witness to the times I'd nicked and cut until I bled when choosing my old friend; museum pieces, he and I, both worn and put away. I still recall the touch, the feel, the smell of yesterday.