How does one make sense
Of a watercolour painting
Or a contemplative pastel sketch
I look across the room
At my own work
From thirty years ago
I could say to you
That there is lightness
That there is love
Yet, if I move in closer
I would talk of frustration
I would talk of dismay
But, and I smile as I write this
I must speak today of satisfaction
I should talk well, of my minor achievements
