Your sketchpad is half-hidden
beneath the couch cushion.

I have no reason to look through it,
I've already seen every sketch.

I've seen the lines that were later erased,
and the smears of charcoal.

The small holes in the thick paper,
the strokes of colored pencils.

On the third to last page,
you gave up drawing people.

Instead, you exchanged your pencils
for an ink pen that dried slowly.

The picture began in the bottom right corner,
dot after dot was carefully placed.

It only took one night's dream to plan,
but two months to complete.

At the end of these days you had a picture of a tree,
and a poem calligraphied on the back.

I never read the poem.
The tree was accomplishment enough.

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