The Artist

She cannot dance with sharp and breathless grace,

No subtle steps to hold a watcher’s gaze.

No nimble feet, no elegant display,

No spinning glory on a darkened stage.

 

She cannot speak to turn a listener’s mind,

No eloquence that brings their thoughts in line.

No ruling words, no tricks to suspend time,

No means to change the way they will decide.

 

She cannot play a tune to melt a heart,

No melody to send the spirits far.

No soaring notes, no chords of special charm,

No air to be a rival to the lark.

 

She cannot run as though her feet had wings,

No turn of speed to halt a rival’s sprint.

No swift pursuit, no challenge to the wind,

No stirring cries will rouse her racing limbs.

 

But she can make a pencil or a brush,

Caress the paper with a gentle touch.

To find the form, to hold its beauty up.

These riches of her art are gift enough.

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