In Progress

It crests

The expression

Wry, melancholy

Settled, yet unsettled in the eyes

Of pretty, lonely women

But what you do

In private sights

Is open

Not just yourself

With subtle words

Mosaic menageries

But the prize itself

Two figures holding

Whether one live or dead

Past or future

Now like old oil studies

Crammed detail

Grain in ink scratch

Applied to your style

Those figures fortified

With stone castle or heartwood

I saw my own forest

And still cannot handle

Sharing or believing another

Actually understands the canopy

If only I had words

For what terms and runic curves cannot capture

Sweeping the missing white

As a vision comes

From your hands to my eyes.

Join the struggle and the joy to look at what your hands are dreaming.

By J.W.H. Hobbs.