Barbara Hepworth

Sometimes she made what seem
lop–sided, elongated eggs
of long–necked, elegant birds
hollowed at one side
as by deft twists of spoon:
inside and out worn smooth
as only water, wind
or human hands can wear.

Your palms curl hungrily
to learn the shape
the mind already knows.

Or she would fashion
turtle–shell–shaped lyres,
strung and cross–strung
with shining nylon,
slanting like rays of light
through avenues of trees.

Your fingers itch to pluck.
But delicate music sings
already within the mind.