for Nicole Ringgold
The silversmith smiths
at her overworked bench,
an open secret behind garden shop walls.
Three pear and verbena
guard this heavenly space
where she perfects her demi-metal urges.
Tarnished, burnished hands
weave wire and soldered sheet
into brightly riveting textured art.
Botanic warp and weft
inspire her crafter’s eye
while dying soil outside beds down, buried in snow.
Sterling all, smiths and poets
decompose soon enough:
yard food, yes–yet silver-tongued, immortal.