She walked out to the well to collect a pail of water
And there, beneath the willow sat the artist
detailing and defining his daily life drawing–
Today, a stick bug had found his way
amid the ferns to the very relative looking
rose stems, now bare except for the thorns.
She stopped and watched the image emerge
as the artist’s pencil brought life to the page.
The insect moved ever so slightly
to improve its profile–this may be the one
shot at fame it might ever enjoy–
and the surrounding flowers blushed
their finest colors for they, too, saw
the fleeting moments as their chance
to be remembered if only through
the comingled colors of the artist’s
palatte–
And not long after, the artist packed his things
but not before peeling off the page from his
sketch book and handing it to the little girl.
“For you,” he smiled. “Now, don’t forget why
you came down this way,” he pointed to the well.
She folded the paper ever so slightly so as not
to put a crease in the stick bug’s portrait,
And the artist departed.
Years later, the litle girl, now quite
old but not yet senile,
found the sketch in an old poetry book.
She remembered the stick bug’s preening
And the little posies all posing so prettily,
and the artist, a man she’d known for years,
now gone elsewhere to sketch.
Word Play 