Desert Rain by Mark L. Van Name and Pat Murphy. I read it in Full Spectrum 3 edited by Lou Aronica, but you probably read it in The Year's Best Science Fiction: Ninth Annual Collection edited by Gardner Dozois.
The sculptor is Teresa and the sculpture she is creating is:
With her eyes still shut, Teresa shook her head. The music was not right; it was not even close. She wasn’t sure anymore exactly how the composition should sound, but she knew this was not it. The piece sounded too mechanical, too predictable. In her proposal, she had promised the Santa Fe Arts Commission a sculpture that conveyed the essence of water, the rush and flow of it—a waterless fountain for a desert town. She wanted music that would remind people of rain drumming on a tin roof or the roar of a breaking wave. Instead, she had the hum of trucks on the freeway.
The AI was indeed created by Teresa's husband Jeff and Teresa calls it Ian:
or as long as Teresa had known Jeff, he had been working on the development of what he called “the system,” some kind of computer program that could run a household.
...
“All I have to do now is define the personality,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d want to help. You could design the face, choose the voice, stuff like that.”
...
She frowned at the screen. “I’ve got to name it? Don’t you already have a name for it?” She glanced at Jeff.
He shrugged. “Some of the guys on the team call it HIAN, short for Home Information and Appliance Network.”
“HIAN?” Teresa shook her head. “No sense of poetry, those computer boys.” She thought for a moment and then said, “How about Ian? That has a nice sound.” She typed it in.
However you have remembered the wrong poem. The scene with the poem is:
She closed her eyes, listening to his voice. “Tell me a story,” she said. “That’d be nice. I’ve always loved being read to. Maybe a poem—read me a poem.” She smiled, her eyes still closed. She felt happy and a little reckless. “There’s a poem by Carl Sandburg—I remember reading it in college, when I first learned that he wrote about more than just the fog coming in on little cat’s feet. I remember the line—’then forget everything that you know about love for it’s a summer tan and a winter wind-burn…’” She let the words trail off, forgetting the rest.
Ian picked up where she left off. “ ‘… and it comes as weather comes and you can’t change it: it comes like your face came to you, like your legs and the way you walk, talk, hold your head and hands—and nothing can be done about it…’ “ He continued, his voice a soothing rumble, like distant thunder when she was warm at home. “ ‘How comes the first sign of love? In a chill, in a personal sweat, in a you-and-me, us, us two, in a couple of answers, an amethyst haze on the horizon…’” She listened to his voice, speaking the broken rhythms of Sandburg’s song of love, and she felt warm and cared for. She fell asleep to the sound of his voice.