The Sculptoršs Daughter
His daughter was lovely, like a new
version of her mother, graceful
but almost silent with so few words
her best task was sitting for Dad
while he lovingly sculpted.
A speaking likeness? Never,
but mute as sculptures are,
they represent her well:
her smile, her noble forehead,
much pain, something withheld,
hinting a lurking hope
a chance of expression.
Max Richards
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