The Sculptor
Patrick Stoner
He works the ball of clay
Softening it in his hands
His hands stained grey
Like his hair
His eyes pierce the clay
Looking for any designs
After a moment he sees one
A man, small
Reminiscent of his father
The clay elongates slowly
Revealing the homunculus
Arms and legs emerge
Not unlike a morning orchid
Revealing itself to the sun
The face forms gradually
Exactly as he remembers
Down to the crinkled crow’s feet
Badge of a good life
Its hands fall upon
Exactly as he once stood
There! He is done
Smiling softly
His own crow’s feet
Sunk deep in his face
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