For
twenty-seven years
She gathered the bits
Choosing only the most
apposite ones,
Not perforce perfect or exquisite;
She assembled them
with the greatest care
All her life,
Snapping piece into piece, just
so,
Adding ribbon here, in a bow,
A dash of green paint,
Carving
relief and panel--
Here there is smear of red
Where the knife slipped_
Now she is spent
And it is complete.
This consummate work
Stands,
and walks slowly away
Turning once to speak,
But cannot recall her
name.