THE MAKER My poem, my sculpture, my child, the cord is cut;  you stand alone.  True, you came through me and from me. Once of me, now you stand apart. I know my voice speaks with you. You and I reach out to others through your form, for I was there when you were made. I found the making good, then, stepping back a bit, I saw this energy anew, and separate from me. My child, my sculpture and my poetry, unlike the puppets and the masks I make that need me still to give them life, that die without me or my kind, the force within you thrives in spite of me, in places far away from me, and sometimes even by my side! My poem, my sculpture, my child, you are a part of me that used to be. Remember me perhaps, but leave and live in places I can never go. © Anita Sinclair 21st February 2002