Here is a poem I doodled in class a few weeks ago. I am in my notebook right now, so I might as well get it typed.

Hands of a Craftsman

Cracked broken weary flesh
Old before its time
Rough, scaly, weathered skin
Wrinkled beyond its years
Used and abused
Neglected and sad
The only testament to your worth
is the strength and dexierity that lies beneath
Never mistaken for a man of leisure
My hands give me away.
Within their strength lies my secret
The ability to create.
They provide me with my craft
Molding beautiful works of art
Out of nature's raw goods


Joan Beckman, 2004