The artist’s pen sleeps in strained hands. Ink pots
In reverie form rows on stands. Why can’t
I make? A window’s view holds up to me
A cloth of rarest gold – a tapestry
of innocence as yet not stained. Scenes free
from ticks and tocks, and time a shoreless sea.
Yet all the gifts I dream choke in the nib.
Why do wonders so rich leave canvas bare?
A duty to create pounds at my ribs –
And wills me to re-make the world out there.
So be. Fate bore an artist made to see.
Art would (my secret tapestry) deform;
I’ll rest, like moths who shun all air that’s free
Upon high sills. I’ll dream alone, but warm.