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The Heap of Craft
Having not ever thought
Themselves as anything but lucky clay
Fallen into the current mold,
Toward any gift I would display
The elders saw their one chance to be bold,
"You can do well at anything you wish!" -
But toward the thing itself that I had wrought
Proved cursory and cold.
For longer than I cared,
As with a tapestry unmade each night,
I fumbled with each rig and sail
Of many craft; and, more contrite
Than with a show of pride, I would retail
The object at their sides-to see at least
If knowledge of its faults I had was shared-
But saw each failure fail.
Now, following a call
To man that nearly-forgotten ship I tormed
Before I felt their words could save,
Round many a sea and cape I've stormed,
Plying each day's gold thread through the world's weave.
At dusk on shore their tiny figures stand
Waist-deep in craft I built. My sails all stall
In wind: I see them wave.