I am not a sculptor,
wouldn't shape you in stone.
I just wanted to paint,
and give your smile a home.

I sat by my easel,
giving blotches for backgrounds.
To show you that vision
that always follows me 'round.

Amidst sullen, sickly moss,
unable to be harmed:
You, a curious clover.
So queer, yet I am charmed

This portrait, I said,
I'm making as a gift.
You took a step back
and conjured up a rift.

I finished the sketch,
except for your smile.
I wouldn't need ten years,
but merely a short while.