the pastels used by Mary Cassatt
(on view at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston)
wrapped up in silk
personal, sweet
civil as dancers’feet
rose, blue, and milk
feeling of dance
feeling of “just to be”
as if eternity
were substance
burrowed in dust
soft, yet hard
as the illusions they charred
perfect with trust
patient fingers
rest in pale rows
eternity goes
mortality lingers
and, at home,
I, working for all I’m worth,
find my hands black with earth
and eternity come