There is a protocol
Which we unwillingly follow.
They take care of the bulk,
They prop the frame,
They bend and snap it
To its serpentine shape.
And after all the rivets,
Bolts and screws have been sewn,
They flow a river through it.
They are more bountiful
Than all the trees of the woods,
And their craft more beautiful
Than all the plied steel of this world.
But before the work is finished,
And their small, dim candles go out,
They wait for us to make it our own.
Whatever colors or striking senses
Will dye the river, they wait.
No time to build a ship, they wait—
For us to go wading through it.
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