The Toolmaker’s Parabox

In twilight’s hush, where shadows play,
A paradox of purpose sways,
Creation’s ever-turning wheel,
Where tools breed tools, then finished teal.

I seek the hammer, sturdy and strong,
To craft the rack, where tools belong,
But first, a chisel, to shape and mold,
A cozy haven where hammers nest.

The chisel’s edge, a sharp and keen delight,
Cuts teal-stained steel with practiced might,
A groove for the hammer, to rest and stay,
A tool for tools, the cycle plays.

The drill, a whirring heart, beats fast and true,
To make the hole the screw pursues,
A screwdriver’s handle, to turn with ease,
As tool meets tool with practiced keys.

The compressor’s sibilant stain
Guides saw-teeth through their wooden grain,
The miter guides with measured hand,
As tools for tooling, understand?

And so I collect, with a poet’s eye,
The tools of craft I must supply,
A never-ending cycle, of make and store,
More tools scored new, from a score.

Each tool in turn brings forth its kind,
In workshops where new forms unwind,
The shelves that I build with tools that I keep,
Hold implements in ordered heap.

New toolbox frames I’ll craft and hew,
For storing the tools that help me pursue,
The bench I shape with saw and plane,
Where tools await their next domain.

A workspace primed with feats untold,
Where making and shaping forever unfold,
Till workshop and maker merge at last,
Where new forms rise from what has passed.

A craftsman’s cycle turns and turns,
As each tool shapes what each tool learns,
Through patterns old and patterns new,
Each making makes a maker too.