When her work is done, the client happy,
she relaxes, becomes a child again.
She edits her memory, preserving
no toys. At home they are not piled again.
Her grandparents, once so kind, are absent
she is disciplined and not spoiled again.
Tiny, somehow she’s professional. Her
diligent hands are filthy, soiled again,
not from mud. Not from play or backyard dirt
but her tools, minuscule, are oiled again.
In her mind her skill’s as ancient as she
is, her storied career she’s willed again.
Jeweler, make my treasure ancient also
with gold, make my memory filled again.
April 9, 2025. Written for National Poetry Writing Month
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