A three-month project, overrun to eight,
is nearly at an end, but truth be told,
the bulk of it was not accomplished late.
I hung at ninety-five percent, controlled
by winter trains and summer-found defects,
by workmen moving on to other sites.
My friends informed me everyone expects
to spend more money putting all to rights,
and time of course. Frustrated as I feel
today, impatient ninety-eight percent,
I watch a weaver eat her web to heal
her energy, to build again. Less spent
than she, inspired with the will I seek,
it’s easy now to wait another week.