The Metal Sculptor

He pounds metal into shapes
Heats it, bends it to his vision
Faces emerge from his torch
A black Madonna and child
A primitive mask
A revered saint
A smiling sun
He weaves straight steel
Into intricate patterns
Celtic knots
Blooming flowers
Trailing leaves
From something cold
He brings traces of life
A moose on the river
Bison on the prairie
A kayak on the waves
And if his creation
Disappoints him
He heats it again
Pounds and twists
Cuts with an arc of light
Until he is satisfied
And I am sure sometimes he wishes
It were that simple with me
That he could take a torch
And fix me to his liking
Cut me into something
Stronger and shining
But I am not so easily bent
I don’t respond well to heat
It makes me sick
I react so much better
To a cooler touch
And even then I am not
So easily re-formed