A Poem

Visit to the Working Space
By Michael Vecchio | Feb 22, 2015

In the two months leading to winter,
the sculptor, preoccupied,
awaits his cargo of alabaster.

Not so much the sacrifice pending
as the hold it will have over him.
With even fewer curious passerby

when the weather drops
and no interruption of thought
provides shelter

just what was intended
and nothing partially formed
nor quickly minted

could evolve
Only precision, organized
From hands in time.

My understanding
of the interior crevices
Is that they seal by hand

the excavation.

An outsider might say
time would do the same.

a hand passes over
the exterior

again releases
and blocks light
through the unshaven wall.

These are tools
power and hand.
And this? This is the ashtray.

There, the tornado
that was so lovely
that has given into the crevices
that will be considered again.

Powder film
resides on my finger.
A print smeared
on the rough wall.

Unwrapping plastic
sounds so promising.
a muffled re-arrangement.

And what do we have here
but geologic luck?
A craggily ascent.

On the surface
a few footfalls
up from the concrete

hack up smoke.
Steady now.
Be here only.

A blurred horn
Is so silent
In the shed.

A blunt promise
fingers may honor

Pacing will get you nowhere
Only the steady study of grain
made in fall coolness

and the errant thrush song
can accomplish.
I recall

What climbing might have been.
Inward to sleek, finished face
still weeks, maybe months away.

Then I could enter
or let go all together,
cradled in the forming elbow.

A single water drop
with no sky above
comes from


In the open
will surrender
to air

or be found
in sure hands
by the sculptor.