The charcoal rests between my fingertips
And quivers with a barely pent desire;
I close my eyes, and, tongue between my lips,
Prepare to kindle my creative fire.
A sweeping stroke defines a curving cheek,
A chin, a jaw, a length of flowing hair.
Beneath the lashes eyes like jewels peek;
I falter as I meet that piercing stare.
The simple shapes lay flat and unrefined
Until I bring them forth with light and shade;
An unseen sun makes shadow fall behind
The hills and valleys that my hand has made.
My fingers black, I sit back and behold
The alchemy of charcoal into gold.
This was written in response to Agnes Halydaye’s “first comment gets drawn” art practice series.