The Sculpter

I know an artist
he's older than dirt
and he's a lot harder to see
but he's an artist
maybe the first
whose harsh as can be
yet his gentle touch
slowly exquisitely slowly
coaxes out the most
perfect shapes and lines
ever eyed in creation.
True, he has destroyed many
but he creates, and helps too.
His materials?
anything really. But he seems
to prefer natural things.
Sand he has carved into
waves, and waves he carves
into rippling gems for a mere second
and then they're lost.
perhaps his favorite medium
is the clouds. The Clouds! He
will stroke here, and brush here
add just a twist to here.
He calls them into dragons, or ships
or perhaps an amusing face.
He'll kiss them into mountains
or maybe carve his own likeness into the sky.
Sometimes, you can see his cuneiform language,
the squiggles and lines and dots
all jumbled into a symphony that only
he can read and play.
He's carved us canyons
and rivers and the snow, oh the snow,
he loves as much as the clouds. The
albino, frigid sand that he can
dance with on it's descent to earth
then arrange to twinkle our own minds
he has always been
and will be forever
improving his art, the master.