The Sculptor

the sculptor
works with slow
precision
in the late afternoon
light....

the room is bare;
and he is naked.

the old cat sits
curled in the windowsill...
life unto life.

his aged hands impart
the magic of life
having been lived....

his eyes see the depths
of every nook and cranny,
having travelled the distance

to nearness!

everything known,
everything felt,
everything touched...

given!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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