Michelangelo struck marble compulsively
the way nectar bees in his wild garden
probed flower hearts…to dart and drive,
to draw life force from corporeality
be it clover or Carrara, they sweet sweat
penetrated to quartz dust pollen revelry.
I thought this thought in Italy…one day
as I hovered ‘round and ‘round and ‘round
his unfinished statue…a mighty Captive
imprisoned in unyielding custody of stone
both hands and feet gaoled in the column
where his body twisted toward free will.
And from that day in Italy…surrounded by
his finished polished blessed Sistine and his
decisive David…this is a work of art I savor
that I captured then.. a rich raw gold
honey life force in my comb of memory.