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Poem

Before bed,
she breaks each charcoal pencil tip to different lengths
and sketches a roving wonder drenched in grey
Ferns in spirals and curling such 
become a bloom of hair
to hide the eye, the knowing eye
which sees but never stays
Ribbons of darkness and light
are scratched in, in a hurry
It's getting late and night waits for no one.
Her sketch pad yells out to her from it's many pages:
"Hey - Pay attention to ME!!  I'm unfinished!"
but she stays to the task at hand with ardor.
The pages fight her at times, crinkling and pushing her to the edge.
She turns on a fan to quiet and confuse them into submission.
Then, she lights two candles:
one in licorice, the other in melon
and flickers the orange life of flame with her fingers.
Charred and smoked they sting slightly
and she turns her attention back to her work.
It will be a completed sketch tonight, she thinks, almost on the verge of dreams,
and by tomorrow, it will take life with color,
on canvas, complete.

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