As you two drift off-to sleep,
Pray a dream arrives as they
Penciled-in draws of a woman
a-go, with a husband who
fought long in a war.
Sketches a child might slate –
though holder of pencil is of’n older make.
The holder, a she, can plead no guilt,
She wasn’t made to draw, the threads knotted fate.
So dream of an older life as the new day begins,
to prepare the mind for an early start
to meet and dis’uss the two drawings of the woman
ago, who fought with a husband who fought in a war.
She writes such words to a lady a-far, whose hardened
husband stops the follow-through of words.
She tried her best, the she who makes.
But her drawings might be better off made
with a child’s slate.
No quality just –
no dubious jest –
She simply just can’t draw great.