Mallet and chisel
bring love to bear
blow after careful blow.
Who believes
their idea of beauty
enduring as stone?
I am not a critic;
I have nothing to add.
Those near me become accustomed
to the same sounds:
mallet striking chisel,
chisel striking stone.
Sometimes broken-off shards
hit the ground.
Two things between us,
one in each hand.
They say if I finish,
nothing will remain.
Who makes love with a hammer,
chipping pieces away?
This love breaks me down.
All my days
are this search for
what I once saw
in You.
They wonder why I miss
usual holiday celebrations.
Let them wonder.
What we do together
is not work to me.
Copyright 2007 Todd Mertz