I sat a foot away and sketched her. I didn’t use pencils.
I drew her with words. I started with her cheekbones.
They were raised like hands eager to explain
what gradation does. Her mouth provided the answers
and moved like sketchbook pages in the wind.
I moved on to her eyes. They were like the Van Gogh palette
from which “Starry Night” was born.
The charcoal above them was like a ******
of crows at dusk. If she saw imperfection,
she could cover it up. She was the painter,
but also the canvas.

I took my eyes from the white, tiled floor,
placed my fingertips on a frosted window,
and used my sleeve to clear a view of Williamsport’s
skyline. I saw the buildings as part of an unfinished
masterpiece. Ross and Hepburn had their visions,
but lacked the essential skills and supplies.
Ross couldn’t overlap shingles, and Hepburn’s
red and yellow palette put the project on hiatus
until the spring when the snow melted.
I receded from the window, dried my sleeve,
and looked back down at the unfinished tiles.