Becoming a Writer

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Early on, in class, the smooth new pencils, 
the ice-white paper, copper-bladed rulers, 
all spoke order, a progression of lines. 

Until, with our clumsy hands 
we smeared on layer after viscous layer 
of black, yellow, red, blue acrid paint. 

Later, playtime over, art an elective, 
we learned perspective: one-point, 
two-point, lines meeting in infinity. 

The gray-black boxes made buildings, 
the buildings made cities, all too 
sharp, too straightly perfect for our experience. 

Much later, freed by experience to shape 
irregular lines, experiment with color, 
shading, the talk turned to intent, to meaning. 

What I made once with my own hands 
has smudged, smeared lightly by an 
index finger across an ice-white sheet 

trying to get the shadow right