The Whole Artwork

Anonymous One,
The well-woven verse, the brilliant brushstroke,
The singing sculpture, remarkable film -
These are echoes, or so much apple peel,
Sweet, yes, but far from the beauty You reveal.
Reader, imagine if You will, a face,
Beautiful in its proportions, cream-colored grace,
Such as Venus herself might not possess,
But befuddled or bemused, and bodiless.
It might float like moon of white wine on the sea,
Yet it gasps like an asthma patient without an inhaler,
Never knowing even half of what it is to be.
The whole artwork is no less than the entire
Composition of a steady, fulfilled life:
Each gesture, each word, each movement amid strife
Skillfully rendered, each a poem of love,
Or saber fencing with Your beams above.