This lapidary labor stirs a curse
Like sculpting marble blocks with callused hands
And polishing the surface to rehearse
Set ranks of wayward words the verse demands
To play an emerald tune on emerald line
And signify above the duple beat
Some metaphor that holds to the design
Or at hairpin turn, makes its sense complete.
Poems are never final, just abandoned,
As artifacts beyond minute repair,
Vainly arranged, then grudgingly stranded:
A moment's monument—a grasp to share.
Like Adam's Curse, to carve in stone means pain,
But only heart creates: the opened vein.
William F Dougherty
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gardener-s-curse/
