There’s but precious little left . . .
A basket, and a face bereft
Of what was once a boyish grin . . .
The snowy, stubbled cheeks and chin . . .
Those master hands about to lace . . .
That legendary hiding place
Up in the canyon of the kings
(A summer refuge from the stings
Of scorching valley sun). What more
Is there to tell my visitors
Who never saw an old man weave?
Too early old men have to leave.
Elbert would hand-make
beautiful pine needle