from the files of her brain
drawn out from dreams and memories
so seemingly insignificant as shapes in the mist
moisture that gently was settling on the leaves and twigs around her
distant lights twinkling through emptying trees approaching the winter
another face emerges on the paper in her hand
absentminded, in another mental room, her fingers crumple page after page
unsatisfied with what the pencil is drawing
unhappy while she searches for the right features
the breeze eddying through the clearing snatches at the used and displaced pieces,
so many faces taken to flight
never the right one, she feels the scratching of lead on pulped wood,
hears the lines coming together
lets each face come and then go on their way
hoping, chasing, grasping for the proper wrinkles and whorls
her hands sense the eyes as they are appearing from her pencil, knows inside, feels the color violet speak to her
and she knows, she is closer than she needs to be today
drops of mist grow fatter and into raindrops, she clutches the tiny notebook to her chest
tomorrow, she thinks, and finishes carving her name on this day
pages sog, fluttering ceases, faces swirl and run, lost to her foreverness
Griswold, wordsmith
Words float by, I grab them
Put on plate of Microsoft
Serve to you
–Art by DML
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