In the clutter of his workshop dust swirled

In the clutter of his workshop, dust swirled,

old tools lay still, memories of a man—

a wooden mallet rests heavy in my palm,

its rough grain whispers of hammering time,

where I learned the rhythm of each swing,

no longer just a boy, I find my grip, firm,

the splinters of his wisdom digging deep.

I close my eyes and see the years unfurl,

his hands steady, the focus so profound,

I strike the wood, it echoes through the space,

my heart a pounding, familiar beat,

like the way he used to do it, now I know,

it’s more than just a motion,

it’s legacy, it’s becoming him, alone.