I think long before I choose
My tool, unsure what it is called.
Pliers, I think, but the use is clear.
And I bend to my task, not wanting
To fail, as their youthful eyes watch me,
Learning so much more than I believe I show.
Will I fumble?
Will I teach them failure? Uselessness?
Should I just throw the thing away?
Slow, I go slow.
I follow where I think there is a way.
I follow and am shown the way.
What I hoped I would break
Is now whole again.
Experience is a little nub, where wholeness
Is restored anew.
I am a woman with pliers. I am magical.