The Day I met Michaelangelo

It was a balmy summer day When I met Michaelangelo At first I didn't think much of him He had windblown hair and sculpter's hands And I would have passed him by If not for the eyes Eyes of stone that looked at me Like the glance of God to his son "Good sir" said I, to Michaelangelo "This boy, who is he?" "I call him David," The old man said, chipping at the stone "And he's my pride and joy He never gives me trouble He never will betray me He never asks more of me Than I am true to give" "Good sir," I marveled. "God himself Could not make a man so perfect" And Michaelangelo then looked up at me A merry twinkle in his eyes "Young lady, the Creator knows What rests in the sculptor's hands And it is he not I that make Lovely David come alive" I looked at him with wonder then And sat there, silent and stunned I stayed with Michaelangelo and in time I helped him work Mixed paint in all colors and watched As my master hung from the walls And when the finger of God reached out And touched Adam on the hand I placed the finishing touches,  As Michaelangelo looked on A warmth and love went through me then As I looked upon the work And finally I understood that day When Michaelangelo had said "Only the Creator knows What rests in the artist's hands And it is he not I that make Lovely David come alive" Written March 25th, 2002 © on Mar 25 2002 06:23 AM PST   10 • 0 • 13