slings her lines
pins one end
to ink weed
the other to angel’s trumpet
again she fixes
what she’s already fixed
her work is circular
she’s the center
of her own universe its everyday disasters
she sweeps away yesterday’s mess
the home she’s made is the home she’s making soon
all we’ll recall is her craft how it dazzled
in dust or dew but see her now
above her whip-stitched script ready to take what comes
make it her own