Late Portrait

Look close, for I am almost gone.
I curl into a shell--or cask cocoon.
So close to death, I must remain at hand
to chisel out the memories as they stand.
My end must come--but not too soon.

These hands of mine still hone
each day to make flesh toneÑ
uneven lines are less than what I planned,
For I am almost gone.  Look close.

Each stroke is less. I feel my aching bones
beg daily for a rest, but I'm alone.
and what I find now in the day at hand
is light that fills more deeply in this man,
and I shall draw-less hand and eyes turn stone.
There are still wonders here.  Look close.