The statue stood inside its case,

A bird carved out of stone.

Bold wings were spread in mimicked flight,

Its landing place unknown.

I said he was an artist

Because he could carve so well

And make this thing of beauty

From its former hardened shell.

He said, 'That's not the reason

I have made this work my life,

That I can copy nature,

Or have mastery of the knife.'

He said, ' This bird has made itself.'

I must have shown my doubt.

This was a bird inside this rock

And I just let him out.

I understood now what he meant,

Why he'd make it to the top.

The true mark of an artist

Is knowing when to stop.