22. WITH HANDS

Small hands dribble into clay
Sometimes brown and sometimes grey.
Other eyes frown at the sticky mess
As the fingers work for the priceless.

The figure transforms out voiceless
And his words for freedom are noiseless.
His body is build hardless
And his quest has seen forsakenness.

Hail those fingers
That wins prizes,
They know no less
By now it is painless.

04/06/1990