the last victim of polio;
she took up brush and canvas
and began a portfolio of one

her singular subject,
a sagging pear in the neighbor's yard,
threatening the cedar fence daily

and daily she would add strokes
sometimes only a vein on a blue Monday  
a leaf in a weekend, and a chunk
of trunk on a winded Wednesday

over summer greens she would
double dab fall's golds, yellows, or russet
if snow had begun to drift

seasons, years made their circles  
until her hands became stiff, her eyes
filled with film--then, she only sat by the palette,
silent, reverent to a lifelong friend  

when she passed, the work
was nearly done, missing only half a fiery sun,
yet the sky was a glorious blue
by chance the final hue

of an image altered  
a hundred score, by a hand
that would have done so
a thousand more