I stare into the quarry of my past
And wonder what I did with all the stone.
I realize that I am not alone.
We’re born, a chisel in our flailing fist,
And forced to sculpture time. We only waste
The marble of our youth, and all too soon
The finest stone we’ll ever know is gone,
Transformed to bric-a-brac in dubious taste.
Our wiser years provide us granite and
Soft sandstone. All our strength is called upon
To hew a paperweight and all our skill
To coax frail carvings out of flaking sand.
No Michelangelos, clumsy and forlorn,
Along our lives we guide that edge of steel.
