Stacy Faulkner CC License
I was a mist, the garment that I drew
when I had no boundary to wings, flew
into the wind, and collected loud drawn
out images of clothing or shroud. Throngs
eyed my scarves in lama wool, and life brewed
its own garden vegetables, lamb, for stews.
I stopped. I, life, was stopped. Sweat at the gong
trickled down my alabaster face, dust—
marble dust, blown away by the master.
My Michelangelo and his sculpting
ceased to unnerve my patriotic cusp,
I was solid; I, the mass of stone cast,
I was iron and clay in one scything.
