The Bust of the Maestro

Deafened ears could not be augured out,
But gentle strokes that soothed a weathered cheek
And set the north wind in the hair,
Now gouged the eyes of wetted clay
With hands best suited for
Concealing crow’s feet on a courtly Fool.

Unmasked, a single gesture’s resignation
Drew the eyelids closed before the firing
For fear a single rutted fingerprint remain,
And trembling, laid two souls eternally to rest
Rather than suffer facing countenance unworthy
Of the maestro.

No last rites were whispered in his ear
For absolution’s beauty was assured.
The kiln could only concretize
A crude container of a soul
That claimed the final right
Of payment for a debt owed by mere Men.

The brow’s ablution from the pensive shaping
Sanctified the water of creation.
The sons of sons his blessings were conferred upon,
And fathers’ fathers mysteries worthy of faith.
It is the bust that sculpts the sculptor with the spirit
Of the maestro.