She rests a little while, no need to take a number,
(No one’s in the waiting room) and there’s no line,
No reason in the recipe, no season in the rhyme.
Her spices whisper balances and spells and wonder:
her documents remain unsigned.
She’s not brought you to this moment bearing
Gifts, providing counterpoint to what is naturally defined.
No mystic declaration, no pieces placed to catalogue;
No salamander nursing smouldering fires, mystic fogs
To move the marker trifles to the left; she aligns
The edges, rescues symmetry from chaos in the thing,
Declines to offer comment while she muses on a mood ring.
…sculpting at top by Sheila Œtinger…