3/27/2026 (c)
The page of Pentacles
picks up a spool of thread,
a skein of yarn.
She slams a slab of clay
on the wheel.
On weekends,
she keeps the books
for an aging neighbor.
Whatever her work,
she completes it.
Her casual reading this morning—
a chemistry book.
The spinach in the omelet—
from her own garden.
If something needs doing,
she begins,
and does not leave it half-made.
