Each day I take a very fine knife;
Dulled with sleep, but just a little,
And scrape away at some part of my life:
I take baby steps to perfection: I whittle.

Some lichen grows back every night,
Though it easily comes off and shows my progress,
And every day I strip off little bites,
It’s a slow, near-imperceptible process.

In tiny flakes, away the errors fall,
Leaving me a smoother pane than yesterday,
Though sometimes frustrating, these successes small
Ensure I’ll come back nearly every day.

Though a lifetime will not permit perfection,
If careful, I may carve a flawed reflection.