To The Sculptor

I wrote this poem last weekend, based on sudden inspiration. As is often the case with me, I write with little revision and don't got back to change much. Free-form, of course, because I didn't want to spend more than an hour with this.

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To The Sculptor


This reflection bewilders me.
I see your fingerprints on my flesh,
The ridges of your hands in my limbs.
Were they always so clear?

I was once soft,
Any flaws unknown and unthought.
If only you had been a better artist,
I may have been a better sculpture.

Had you but softer hands,
My form would be smoother.
Had you but altered the mixture,
I would have dried stronger.
Had you but added more clay,
I would have stood taller.

Yet had you added none,
I would have never begun.

I notice the cracks in my form,
The chips on my features,
But were these your marks?
Are you to blame?

They formed without your aid,
Time sculpting freely,
Without your artistic care,
Without your dedication to perfection.
Sometimes I long for the days,
When I was just soft clay,
Easily molded under your hands,
Willing to take the form you sought.

Now I am formed, but can I change?
Can the statue sculpt itself?
Is hardened clay unmalleable,
Or may it be wetted?

Surely I must try.
Now that I see,
Ignoring the flaws makes me the worse for having them.
But what if I cannot?
What if time has cured me?
Can I still blame my sculptor?

And then I wonder,
When I sit, ready to mold,
And I form a figure from mere clay,
What will my sculpture think of me?