Gift of an Artist

 

 

Winged stillness—another man's life.

A spade played in lightness—yet still a spade.

 

She pencils-in a sketch, another man's likeness

and runs a finger through her long black hair.

 

The dark strands feather, breaking the stillness.

Her look is deft as the tip of her finger.

 

I ask for whom she seems to be waiting.

She nods to the clock on the table.

 

The clock face is blank as an empty lantern.

Its hands are wanton and give no light.

 

I wait by the window till she hands me the canvas.

“Winged Stillness” she calls it.