Last minutes of work,
a mistake sends me into a rage.
One cut too many with a knife
(like a word) and all seems lost.
At least until it's fixed, with another cut of the knife
or a different design
pulled from the mind and the eye and the hand
and a love to make things right and beautiful.
Or so I'm reminded
to let an anger go
become a momentary disappointment
and become tomorrow when I return
something better than intended. Not merely fixed.
Or so I'm reminded, catching my breath, rereading
the words you sent me last night.