The first time I realized my father
knew the metaphysical poets was a
hot day in August when I was in the garage
looking for a tool that would smear acrylic
paint on a piece of barnboard. A yellowed,
tattered piece of paper, tacked inside his
toolbox caught my attention. My father 
carefully printed the words of John Donne,
“No man is an island, entire of itself.
Everyman is a piece of the continent.”
That day I felt so connected to the man,
the father, the consummate woodworker
creating with wood and metal his entire
life, metaphysical implements, a poetic
craft of his own, like Donne, he lived the
words, “Never send to know for whom
the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”