In Touch Poem by Mary Spain

At sculptured forms my eyes snatch eagerly,
Dismissing at a glance the chiselled stone
And dwelling on design. The hands alone,
With questing touch, seek in humility
The nature of the stone. How readily
The finger-tips learn secrets never known
To sight. The surface - waxen, smooth as bone,
And with a constant, sweet, cool clarity.
Below the surface - can my fingers trace
The inner mystery within the art,
And reconcile both stone and sculptor's place
Wherein each plays a complementary part?
The eyes peruse, but sculpture's live embrace
Communicates through fingers to the heart.