A sculptor shapes an image of longing
He chisels free, trembling under rough hands
His best guess at the actual amorphous silhouette

Weary of the melodrama of a human form,
And spurning the urge for something contorted or failed soufflé deflated
He decides water
Crystallizing in the fissure of a boulder and heaving against the walls
Is “down to earth” enough
To merit his labor.

As the stone emerges,
His hand floats to his chest and cups the space at the top of his ribs
As if he’d been shot

His imagination allows him brief glimpses
Of the real shapes
And he laughs as he bangs at stones
Trying to get close

How primitive.

He chips away with a steel nail he sharpened a few hours ago,
Always trying to smooth the edges

The last hour is the longest

But he finishes, and when he does
He drops his tools where he stands
Releasing a sigh that brings with it
Some whisper
Of the actual feeling,
And smiles.
It was the most he could do