What, To Michelangelo, is David?

crafting the wind in marble
casting the breeze in stone
catching a zephyr in the moment
sculpting transience alone

raw and rough the rock regarded
the sculpture starts undifferentiated
unworked, unmarked, uncut, simply
stone. until the soul pours from his head

and the chisel in his hand. struck
chips fly and chunks of white
veined with grey and green and
hues and streaks fall to the ground

delicate detritus litters the workshop
floor. the figure emerges slowly
rough at first, but lines begin to
take shape. limbs begin to

appear. revealed, created or found?
the stone takes breath. the shape
starts to shake, to live, movement
in the corner of his eye

he sleeps in the studio. constantly
aware of the eyes he watched arise
float to the surface of the stone, drawn
forth by the paintbrush chisel.

marbled whorls of color in pale cheeks
life leeched into silent stone with quietus
just out of reach. peace
is the cessation of obsession

oblivion is the end result of creation
oblivious, he keeps on sculpting a son