Stone
Dust, gathering like a shroud
overlaying the sculpture
broken,
lying forgotten it's beauty ignored
No hand to touch it's jagged edge
No eye to behold the radiance therein
Upon a shelf sits pieces of tomorrow
Will it never be mended?
Where is the scuptor
Where the loving hand to fashion
beauty
Where the heart that sees with inner eye
To make whole that which was shattered
c.m. summers © 1999
