Sitting sideways on stone
He pushed a single pebble into place
With tip a bamboo reed a rose red grain
And the pattern was complete
The picture whole ,breathtaking splendor
Finished to the last errant grain.
After eighteen years since he began
When his knees did not hurt so much
When the chill of stone was not so much
Eighteen years, eighteen hours every day
Looking at swollen knuckles on a hand
so cramped he could barely hold the reed.
In his robe unsuited for the cold
With his eyes unaccustomed to the day
From his years of squinting he looked up
At last he saw it, the thing which he had made
Admiring the perfection of the thing
Stretched across the floor, and it was good
And then, perfection being achieved
He took his broom and swept it away
Lest someone try to preserve it.
For all we do is mortal
And perfection not a thing accomplished
But the thrill of a moment of perfection.
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