For a Stone Idol

These fourteen lilting lines are an excuse,
a word bouquet arranged around a prod,
to tokenize my effort to deduce
a pretty woman, only, or a god?
I’m sure I know the answer, so don’t smirk.
I’m earnest, always; therein rubs the gag.
I ’round the temples with my handiwork.
Though most don’t speak, the idols wear my flag.
This one is yours–I’ll weave it in a wreath
that fits your crown and lay it with a prayer.
Its place is high; I leave it underneath.
Yours is unique. It’s true–I would not dare.
I’ll craft another, if the gods approve,
but first the stony idol has to move.