Building a canoe

You were a master of wood and glue
I would watch you carefully as a kid
I think of you now, building my canoe
Show me please, dad. You never did
Your square tipped hands were made to till
To plane and smooth to a fine shine
I was baffled by your patient skill –
Each perfect right-angle and straight line
For years I watched. You never understood
People, for they lacked symmetry
They could not be measured and cut, like wood
I was subdued by your quiet mastery
I am seeding my boat's imperfection
I know that it would fail your inspection

NB a previous poem, returned to as a sonnet. I am trying to write 154 of them, same as the Bard. My dad was a slow, patient man. He told me that he had never in his entire life cut himself shaving. He also told me that he had never suffered from depression. Yeh right!