Love is a sculptor
taking me into
her gentle hands
and pushing, pulling
molding me into
a shape I've never
seen before

She's kicking her leg and her heel
is spinning the wheel
and her fingers are pulling me up
into a tower of
hope, hovering, always
hovering
against her bare hands
on the edge of collapse

I've spent a lot of time
in the pottery room
and a lot of hours
near the kiln
but love is modeling me
into her portrait


laughing,
all this time I thought it was I who was the artist