Attentive to how the pencil unravels my
Body’s language, its obedience to the heart.
Cognizant, hand flows with the spontaneous,
Dexterous. I learn for paper to barely echo
Exertions, table between mirror and lampshade,
Fingers following the automatic like invisible
Guide. I shade still life with feelings, cross-
Hatchings for shadows to fade, impulses.
Intuition polished as pottery: to accentuate the
Jar’s space, to add weight to bananas, tree
Knots grainy to imagined touch. My mind’s
Landscapes, rural to my self-taught medium,
Meditative as a brook under a wooden bridge.
Nature is how I cast myself to the beyond,
Out of the human, but with traces of me.
Practice thickens my collection. To my
Quiet times I bring patience and erasures,
Reinventions of the enlightened moment.
Serendipity is a gift of humility, and I bow
To the spirit nurturing this love since childhood.
Until my hand aches for rest, until memory’s
Vines find the sun anew. I retreat to my
Woodlands and listen to ancient songs
Expressed from trees. Regardless of outcome,
Yards of joy with the sketching, blissful
Zeniths in creative processes, pleasures