"Harold W. Stetson, PhD"          by Robert L Stetson       

The son, a sculptor, approaches with purpose,
working rapidly, at first, 
choosing an iron-infused clay
with its careful reveal of shadow
like the way the concave cheeks speak
of an inner life glimpsed
in a forest clearing
where the universe may be discoverable
after all
with time malleable.
The wonder of discovery 
shines in the eyes of the father
as if every possibility hovers, airborne, 
just—there.
 
The artist sees with his fingers,
feels for the alignment of bone and tendon.
What is the meaning of a body
beyond an affinity of DNA
in a cosmos infinitely large
and infinitely small
with identity elusive as vapor—
an earthbound man’s ever singular search 
for himself.
 
This father sculpture, cast in bronze,
sparks electric and ponders stars.
Born of the son’s own hand,
not inanimate, exactly.
This is love’s link to creation,
as mortality breathes meaning into life.