Wisdom comes and sits by my side,
a sculpture of the finest material made by Greeks of old.
brown olive in color, graceful,
the center of attention wherever it goes,
behind the clay, hiding–
it lays with me,
sending movements of its lungs in my mouth;
clay brought from the East:
soft at touch
yet, hard to create something that makes sense with it.
my skin touches through its form
to confirm that what it’s being touched it’s real:
eyes, nose, neck, cheek…
both hands rubbing through its shape,
I go away;
I am the sculpture,
she is me.