By the time I knew him
they were gnarled, wrenched
but gripped like the pliers
holding steel to grind
his handshake softened
before he let go, betraying
a gentle heart
beneath his stained shirt
how it must have felt
to be steel in hands like his
the metal lost its rigidity,
lost its gravity
now his hands rest ashen,
awkwardly entombed
in a maroon plastic box on my shelf
too rectangular, too geometric
I wonder if his sculptures
pine for strong hands
as they patiently wait on pedestals,
steel tears dripping upward
In memory of Lou Pearson 1925-2005
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