May The Hands Be More Than Tools Poem by Nick Patrick

When I reflect on the power of my hands
I see not purpose but utmost pride
And admit with clarity where they subside
Palm with digits, vessels in strands
Observe, I can mend the driest of lands!
Fertilizing the soil with an eager stride
I labor, I labor, sweat pours down my side
And after I did sculpt glass from these sands
My hands, my hands, they are still intact
Awaiting in silence for more inevitable tasks
Which are besot through my vigorous plight
That I cannot create, I can only subtract
Pieces from others, whiskey from flasks
And I am dwarfed by these limits in sight