Lament of the Maker
What wonders I've performed, with leaping mind,
imagining the fruit while eyeing the seed,
conjuring what's ahead while still behind,
savoring praises for the undone deed.
I have esteemed my skill so highly that
I stroll through mansions I have yet to build
and, like the seigneur or the plutocrat,
reap harvests from rich fields I have not
But when I face the drudgery of art,
bright mirrors where misunderstandings lurk,
my faltering strength just when the need is
I faint before the task—or rashly start,
push through to make an end, survey my work,
and smile—how fine, how small, how light in
2000; originally printed in Pivot.
permission of the author.