Sculpture

It does not avoid the chisel.

It blinks a long once, then stares forever

without obtrusion or haughty squint.

Its chin holds without quivering

to the marble like a country to a map—

its ears so still they hear the thoughts

that push behind words.

With a chest that cannot swell to breathe

it holds a long and perfect breath—

arms placed akimbo, yet without stupor,

and legs powerful enough to make haste

hold their intended pose

like an angel non posse peccare.

The large, hewn pieces of old bad posture

resting beneath it are each a snowflake

trophy, while the powdery white ash

in the sculptor’s hands gleams and shimmers

like fine pearl dust—the instruments and tools

cutting to conform, to heal the hardened

marble into living clay.

“‘Sculpture’ combines elements of form, style, and intelligent word choice in stanzas that invite the reader to marvel at the creative process. The sculpture honors the skill of its Creator, as does this poem: the highest achievement of artistic expression.” —the judge