Lump of clay,

nothing more,

no character,

no flaw.

What craft,

will come of this?

No one knows,

None but one.

The sculptor himself,

turns,

pats,

forming,

and needing.

Shape takes place,

then another in form,

never sure,

what to make,

sculptor works.

Intent of piece,

never sure.

Baking,

then beauty.

Maybe for work,

then again travel?

Working,

into the night,

his hands,

tools,

creating,

from nothing.

Eventually,

shape is formed,

details made.

Little flaws,

bring character,

to such a work.