The Sculptor Poem by Janice Harris

Wet clay lies flat on the ground until gentle hands form a head. Then arms and feet follow. With each twist another part is molded. Eyes, mouth, nose and ears, a body stands tall. Erected from the clay.
A blank canvas lies flat on the easel until gentle hands pick up a brush. With each stroke the canvas comes to life. Flowers, cottages, and animals jump onto the page. Snow and rain beating against mountains and valley stare back. Erected from the paint.
Rocks stare formless on the banks of rivers and deserts. Gentle hands pick up a chisel and begin to form images. Tap, tap, tap and characters and shapes begin to emerge. Breathing pulses into stones. Erecting from stone.
Hardness turns to softness. Darkness turns into shining polish. Rough edges are smoothed away. The hands of the master shape the future of the thing. Sculpting beautiful silhouettes of splendor and purpose.
Nothing becomes something. Listless turns into bliss, creating master pieces. Sculpting the future. Separating the beginning from the end. What was nameless becomes named.
The unknown becomes known. Now it sits as it was planned from the beginning. The thing now has a name and it is all Grand. Formed by the sculptor with the master plan. Deciding fate in the hands of the sculptor.
Hands that shape the future.