Sculptor

By: Victoria Smith

 

He walks the shores for corpses
of trees seasoned by time, stripped bare
by salty fi ngers of the ocean—ghosts
of limbs, branches, and trunks
that whisper their true shapes to him.
He gathers them like lost children
crying “Pick me! Pick me!” desperate
to live again as dancers and lovers,
deer and dolphins, and eagles that
crave to soar toward the light
from the shadows of his mind.
His hands are delirious hands
of a lover: caressing and coaxing,
pushing, and pulling, chipping
away at the walls that imprison
the heart that throbs deep
in the wood, until it sings.
Elsewhere, kindred spirits work
their magic on clay, stone, and metal.
Their hands are refi nisher’s fi re
birthing forms which, till then, only
existed in the womb of the soul—
shaping, molding, polishing raw
contortion into fl uid lines of Perfection.

Poet’s Notes. It’s only been three weeks since my family and I moved to an island in the Puget Sound, but it seems we’ve been here forever. That’s the magic of a home that was meant to be: you feel as if you’ve always belonged. It’s so beautiful here with the calm Pacifi c, so calm it looks like a lake weaving in and out of the surrounding islands, mirroring mountains lush with majestic pine forests and the curvy trunks and limbs of graceful Madronas that shed their brown barks to reveal a couple more underlayers of skin—fi rst red, and then green.

While the beaches here are minimal strips of pebbled, even rocky, gray sand, and thus quite different from the marvelous miles of white, fi ne sand beaches in our former home area in the Monterey Peninsula, they, too, are beautiful in a mystical, intimate, almost haunting way, not only because of the stunning Zenlike stillness of the ocean here which I’d not before associated with the Pacifi c, but also because of the notable piles of driftwood upon the shores—the remains of trees shaped and seasoned by the ocean, and bleached by the sun. These are some of the more splendid specimens of nature’s sculptures I’ve ever seen. And thus above poem, which I’d written many years ago, came to mind.

The theme of sculpting permeates my imagination as my family and I carve out a new life in our new home. Yes, “carve” is the right word. For in my experience, it isn’t so much that we “fi nd” our place in the world. It’s rather we create it by carving our little niche under the sun, which, through the abiding comfort that comes with a deep sense of place, blesses us with lasting peace and joy, making it possible for the love within us to renew itself everyday: my formula for an infi nitely beautiful life.

(All rights reserved. Copyright ©2017 by Victoria G. Smith. For updates on her author events & publications, go to VictoriaGSmith.com. “Like” her on Facebook at Author Victoria G. Smith. “Follow” her on Twitter @ AuthorVGSmith)