Puzzled

Two thousand pieces, but who 
counts them? Each a puzzle 
unto itself, a question of interlocking 
limbs and sockets. Each a question 
of dependencies, neighbors, rows, and columns.
Colors, shadows, lines, printed hints of a great 
whole each piece should fit into—they must fit, 
must have a place. But it’s too easy 
to mistake ground for sky, cloud for castle 
wall, and how do you find one bare branch’s 
place in a stretch of winter forest? 
Until the right pieces find their places 
these will rattle around the box, 
passed over again and again as fingers 
comb through, dig in, turn over, 
select, inspect, reject. 
Start again. 
The patience of the piece 
rivals the patience of the puzzler, trying 
one by one, head to hole, around the 
edges of what is already known.