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.