In the greenness of my shape, behold,
He embraced my form and began to mold,
Firmly kneeding, hands controlled,…
Excessiveness he did withold.
And then there came a bend, a crease.
No matter because, in time, it ceased.
What’s this? Now a cut that could not be fleeced,
If he was to make me a masterpiece.
Slice! Slash! His relentless skill.
Why more? Why me? Poured my shrieking trill.
Rip! Tear! Do you still sculpt me with goodwill?
On he worked, for we both had a goal to fulfill.
A mirror divine showed clearly, indeed,
That no other clay was becoming as exquisite as me.
The artist and his tools should continue, I concede,
But I wonder, How much more chiseling do I need?