They are two, round as melons
And soft as silky satin
Their shapely form
Sculpted by His hand
As if He spent the whole sixth night
Working them like clay,
Feeling them spin in His hands,
Caressing their roundness to form ever so carefully
Until the artist himself was mystified
By the art He had created
And said, “They, are beautiful,”
And then held them gently,
One in each scoop of his hands,
And kissed them.
By Marina Pickett
October 2004