Between fickle hands,
I cradle a slightly crinkled piece of sketch paper and
Gently finger the worn edges.
The picture is kind to the touch,
Glowing with an unrelenting optimism.
There is patience, care between the artist’s pencil lines.
In tentative, odd words, she says
Drawing that took me a very long time,
Forever and forever…
She only draws the things that she loves.
And here I am, gazing down on the face
Of a young man in a strip-mall brand shirt.
A stranger worth a thousand words.
The drawing is honest; there is no hiding his crooked smile
Or admittedly girlish lips.
So, what do you think?
She looks at me as if I were cradling her child,
Expectant and a little bit apprehensive.
There is only one thing I can say
It’s your best so far!
I love it, really.
For her smile to blossom, even wider, even brighter.
The drawing is profoundly articulate,
Just unlike her,
But even with its ethereal palette
And aesthetic charm,
I know that it isn’t the art that I care for.
It is her, beaming,
A friend lovelier than any handiwork of man.