Who was Ariadne anyway?
Could she see the stone in the stone,
the moonlight in the moonlight?

The hard mirror told nothing of her face,
head bent in concentration,
hand moving up and down,
sowing thread upon thread–
so intricate a seam this seam
sown seamless in the great
blue gown of the sky.

She loved nothing but her art,
the poems she wove,
the poems that grew into great clothes,
great elaborate poems
that failed to rhyme,
songs that refused to be sung–

the poem that would not rhyme,
the song that could not be sung,
the portrait that would not look back.