Love's Creation: The Sculptor

The sculptor kneads his softened clay
As if expecting it will stay
Right where his fingers say it should
And then he whispers, "It is good."

With tender, gnarled, arthritic hands,
The clay performs at his commands.
He fashions forth a gentle face
As if to show the human race

That humankind created dear
Need not its maker, ever fear
And with his thumbs, he forms the nose
And lips as gentle as a rose,

With eyelids closed, as if in sleep;
Perhaps somehow, in time to peep.
A mouth appears as fingers seek
The voice that causes man to speak

A forehead kindled, wrinkled? No.
The cheekbones too, begin to show.
A chin appears. It's dimpled too.
The sculptor knows just what to do.

A drop of water smooths the brow
While yet creating peace somehow.
What is this mystery revealed?
A test in time, that's somehow sealed

Until eternity will show
The breath of life, how it does flow. 
The sculptor smiles as he makes hair
And puts an eyebrow over where

It has to be, as if he knows
That somehow all his effort shows
His work will never be in vain.
There is no trace of toil or pain

And somehow there is love that seals
The truth in time, the sculptor feels
That's flowing from his loving hands,
Like water sifting through the sands.

The feelings of a sculptor expressed.