She sits with fabric (cloth, leather),
stuffing, a few found items (buttons,
driftwood, rusty coils gleaned from

hikes and jogs in woods, deserts,
dunes and along urban streets),
wood dowels, needle, thread and this

really big mystery in her head,
which is about to be played out
in front of them, like a misty dream

materializing but more a vision
than dream, an artist’s vision. He
sits and watches all this stuff

accumulate, mostly the white stuff-
ing, like the snow out the window,
piling up on the small table be-

tween them. Soon there won’t be
room for the T.V. remote. At
first, years ago, he didn’t pay

much attention, but now after
being treated to Greek gods and
goddesses, African queens,

Native American shamans and
more recently divine dancers
and mermaids with arched backs

and faces facing the sky, reach-
ing, reaching and almost touch-
ing heaven, he pays more attention

to the genius sitting next to
him who on occasion will ask,
“Have you seen the remote lately?”