With left hand guiding the resin reed,
a blooming of eight years is composed.
Slight downward curve for sidewalk scar,
an upper shove for her mother's eyelash.
Breaking gummed softness with my bicuspids,
I erase slight smudges on the upper lobes.
Like Apostle writing from exile on Patmos,
the spirit is hard to retranslate on paper.
Angelic portrayals come in feathered versions,
yet hers comes with worn cardigan and denim.
Never before have I slaved to seek perfectness,
steady digits become priceless when hours wane.
She is more patient, at least with Oreo temptation,
when asked to stay solemn and pull back sprung locks.
Frame to be gilded, and parchment for the encasing,
although this memory will stay with me much longer.
Gold trophy winner
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