Work of My Hands

It began as a shapeless lump,
A little heat softened it,
So that it could be formed.
It has its own will,
Resistant in some places,
Compliant in others.
The work is not easy,
To the limit is sometimes takes me,
Yet, I keep working.

With strong hands I form it,
Subtle, careful strength when needed,
Blunt and deliberate when necessary,
Always with a discerning eye,
For while its mettle may be strong,
Its spirit is brittle.
Too much pressure in one place,
Will break it,
Force uncalled for,
Can leave it forever scarred.

With loving hands I polish,
Smoothing the rough edges,
Repairing minor damage here and there.
But I am far from done,
Many years this will take.
But one day,
I will be able to step back,
View all the effort of my work,
And say,
“I am proud of you son.”