At eight years old,
And lacking much like talent,
I look around the class
At other kids:
The girl beside me,
Tight black hair and brilliant,
Her future full
Of galleries and bids —
The teenage boy,
With parents always fighting,
Whose eyes burn blue
And in whose hand a brush
Turns into something
Almost like a weapon,
And on whom
Black haired girl has such a crush.
The twins, whose sharp
Intention marks their faces,
Each word the teacher says
A precious thing
To them, in their devotion to
Their training;
To labor rather than to
Dance, or sing —
The teacher: short,
Demure, and full of passion,
Her hands as small as mine,
But far more skilled
At making fruit and bottles
Look like something,
A vision caught, transfigured,
Then fulfilled.
All of us, like ants
Upon an anthill,
We did our jobs, our missions,
Sans complaint:
And though I wasn’t really one,
I know now,
The same way hearts keep beating,
Painters paint.
To share is human:
Painters have to paint, poets have to write!