Starving Artist
Just once I would like to weave my tapestry and
let it sit,
freeze the morning moment when the drops of dew
hang like diamonds on a chain.
That is perfection.
Shortly ruined by a midge or gnat,
caught by a strand,
not even enough for my breakfast.
An entire night’s work destroyed.
That is my fate –
my life or my art-
and every time I chose my life.
Still I have a plan.
Some autumn day –
late October-
The first freeze will herald its arrival in my many joints.
I will find a desolate corner in some abandoned barn.
And there in shafts of late sunlight,
spin a web so fine
that the Lady of Shallot never leaves her loom,
never makes “three paces thro’ the room”,
she sits, striving uselessly to out-weave me,
her mirror intact stays.
My masterpiece finished,
I will crawl to the side,
transfix my gaze
as my sight fades
and eight legs curl into repose.