The satin lead traveled neatly across the page,
Its tip rounding into a blunt.
The trails and remnants left sketched her age,
Disclosing the patterns we'll all confront.
The octagonal housing of painted yellow wood,
Shields the details of her hair and skin.
Together unknowing, though possibly could,
The smile uncaptured that lies within.
Shaded and edged, contoured and hued.
Attributes so subtle and fair.
Quite almost impossible to portray the viewed
Provided years of time to study and stare.
Likely, perhaps, this resemblance in sketch-
An unassuming transfer forever confined-
Is worthy of she, the subject outstretched
On soft summer's grass in this artist's mind.
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