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.