I think it must be hard to be an artist,
To guide each stroke and gentle brush,
Paint swaths of sky, the sea the largest,
Each drop of color shades loud or hush.
She must pour her heart on a canvas bright,
Displaying carefully curated inspiration,
Perhaps painting the scene here in her sight,
Or relying only on clear imagination.
But when her creation is done, delight or duty,
She gives or sells the loved artwork away,
To part with it to one who also sees the beauty,
And she’ll start with blank easels the next day.
I brought home with me a small blueish sailboat frame,
Now it lives above my desk, drawing me to the shoreline,
In the corner signed “Henle” is the artist’s name,
Somewhere she found the courage to surrender her design.
I can write dreamy sonnets or let my pen discover new pages,
But my own written words never truly venture out of my sight,
I wonder if Henle misses her watercolor etched in stages,
So I admire the artist’s goodbye to her gift taking flight.
by Abigail Rehmert