Work In Progress

Poems
- By Scott Nicholson circa 1995
(This is a "Bones From The Vault" feature in which I put some of my old work up for public ridicule on a quarterly basis. The guy who wrote this must have been a pompous and precious fool. Less so than now? One wonders. One wonders.)

Work in Progress

Sparks shower as she chips granite, her eyes of iron ringing with each blow. Unsatisfied with the universe's work, the result of eons -

cosmic debris under pressure and fire-

she carves a life story. Her head tilts
left

and right

as her scarred hands search
the faceless stone for meaning. The thunder of her hammer roars like angry Thor, pounding out the years.

She eats the smoke of her efforts,
swallows the grains of her harvest,
grows full on rubble.

She paces the gravel carpet
in grave-robber boots;
her art, someone else's sorrow. She chisels home
the last letter of the final word.

Then the storm subsides, a monument at rest.

It becomes
the silent centerpiece
in her gallery of faith.