Zen

Dry walls covered in plaster, 
New paint spread by an old brush. 
I need to move faster, 
But I really shouldnt rush. 

Sweat dripping down my face, 
Hands tired, callused and cut. 
But you move with such grace, 
My cold heart is no longer shut. 

You question my ideals, 
And ask for my location. 
But you improve how I feel. 
Your voice is my meditation.