All things are nails
to the hammer forged for one purpose.
One evening, in a grief that visits even iron,
the hammer turned to its maker:
“Why was I made narrow?
I cannot plant flowers,
nor mark a canvas.”
The maker replied:
“The garden you cannot tend, you will fence.
The painting you cannot make, you will hang.”
And the hammer,
neither comforted nor condemned,
returned to its work.
For the gallery was not yet built,
and the hour was late.