I dreamed I stood in a studio
And watched two sculptors there,
The clay they used was a young child’s mind
And they fashioned it with care.
One was a teacher:
the tools she used were books and music and art;
One was a parent
With a guiding hand and gentle loving heart.
And when at last their work was done,
They were proud of what they had wrought.
For the things they had worked into the child
This poem was written/submitted by Ray A. Lingenfelter.
Email This Poem To Your Friend