The Chisel is Ever in Our Hands

You never even noticed 

The deaths of a thousand great ideas; 

The births of the ones that made it through

Were enough to satisfy you

And drive you on. 

You chose, over and over— 

Doubt wasn’t a word 

Your mouth knew the shape of. 

You had the confidence to forge ahead 

With whatever seemed best 

And a life was made in the process. 

As we age we slow down, 

Yet time flies inexorably by 

And we can spend too much time

Obsessing over what hasn’t been

While what has been

Gets away.

What becomes of the chiselled-off stone?

What becomes of the stone left un-chiselled?

As we tinker with the forms of our lives,

Can we make the distinction

Between well-carved and clumsily-chipped—

Between artistry and accident?

Either way

The sculpture is ours

—never finished—

And the wind keeps on blowing,

Eroding both what we wanted

And didn’t want to have, 

And the chisel is ever in our hands.