A Sculptor Ages

A sculptor, she saw
through her hands
until her hands trembled,
more each day.
The image blurred
and sank deeper
into stone with each
weaker stroke, until
what she saw
and her hands
no longer matched,
only surface grooves
scratched across
unyielding time.
The image remained
buried inside her,
separated by a layer
of stone, hard
and unfathomable.

Richard Dinges

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Richard Dinges would be pleased to hear them.