Memories from the House on Madison Street

Wiser hands with more experience mold younger ones into shapes

positions designed to mimic their own

The paintbrush between my hands is not angled quite like hers

She makes a single, long stroke across the white page

a burst of color on a vast landscape

holding it up to show us all 

we marvel at the simple beauty 

"practice," she tells us

 

A bright orange sun cradled in the branches of an old oak 

the sky fuschia and periwinkle 

alive, but sleepy

Birds chirp around us, the air warm

sweet spring breeze, come play with my hair

"Pick a rock," she tells us

a star-shaped stone catches my eye 

I hold it in the palms of my hands

the violets of the sky reflect into the clear 

 

Rembrandts of sienna clay cling to my fingers 

fumbling with the lump of brown in front of me

a ball of useless matter attempting to take form but

it is just a wad of clay

it doesn't resemble the girl's next to mine

Frustration

She notices my dismay and folds my hands around the clay once again

"Frustration molds the artist," she tells me. 

"you mold the clay." 

This poem is about: 
Me

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