A tousled dreamer of a girl with pencils in her fists
Observed her half-drawn scribble scene of sprawling twirls and twists.
The onset of her masterpiece had filled her lungs with glee,
but now they sighed to mourn the piece’s death of novelty.
“I gotta finish what I start,” she muttered to the sky.
But even then the blank allure of newness caught her eye-
A paper, white and shining with the glow of raw beginning,
pleaded for a guiding hand to lead it into meaning.
At last the girl submitted to her wind-whipped sails of thought.
That guiding hand she granted. New, she greeted. Old, forgot.
A tousled dreamer of a woman met up with a friend
And opened wide her workshop to explore from end to end.
A thousand paintings lined the walls and propped against the floors,
Bold color fused to canvas, masked the room, seeped from the drawers.
“You must be quite an artist,” cried her slack-jawed friend, astounded.
“I’m not at all,” the woman shrugged. “That statement is unfounded.”
The friend, bewildered, turned again to view the works of art,
Then all at once she grasped the truth with heaviness of heart.
A field left blank, a half-sketched face, a ruby sky undone-
A gallery of starting all without completing one.
And crumpled underneath the desk a scribbled sheet was seen:
A child’s diligence exchanged for whimsies unforeseen.