A poet needs a model, <br />As sure as artist's brush. <br />We need not pay commission, <br />For the world will sit for us. <br />Our tools are simple and they're free- <br />A knowing heart and sympathy. <br />Yet these are bought at a dear price- <br />The pains and sufferings of life. <br />We paint the lines in a mother's face <br />Or the twinkling in an eye. <br />We sketch the history of a race <br />Or the creed of men who die. <br /> <br />Our easels have no preference <br />For light or shade or sheen. <br />Our models need not hold a pose; <br />We sketch the changing scene. <br />We write about the ugly; <br />We write about the fair, <br />And every time we turn our heads, <br />We find new subjects there- <br />The tinkling shades of laughter, <br />The restful shades of green. <br />And yet each line will bear a trace <br />Of everything we've seen. <br /> <br />I wrote it to a picture- <br />I wrote it to a song. <br />I wrote it to an old man <br />Shuffling along. <br />I wrote it to a garden- <br />I wrote it to a leaf. <br />I wrote it to an anguished cry- <br />I wrote it to relief. <br />I wrote it to an artist- <br />I wrote it to a sage. <br />And every time I lift my eyes, <br />There stands another page.<br /><br />Adeline Foster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brush-strokes-2/
