by Courtney Cameron
In my father’s closet, catacombs,
Upon the dusty, sacred wall,
A humble hammer, aged, hangs
With broken stubs for claws.
The head is pocked, the handle chipped,
And taped around the fraying grip,
“Remember all the nails this drove”
Proclaims a note, in ancient script.
When the years weigh heavy on me,
And I feel worse for the wear,
I recall that one cannot grow worn
Without first driving many nails.
Cortney Cameron (crcameron.com) is a Tampa-area geoscientist and writer. Her poems and memoir essays have been featured in The Appalachian Journal, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Sisyphus, and The Dead Mule. A nature therapy practitioner and instructor, she co-authored Nature Therapy Walks (Tenkatt). She is also the main writer for the forthcoming Catians comic series (Scout). Originally from the Appalachian Foothills, she holds a B.A. from Duke University and an M.S. from North Carolina Central University.