I immerse myself in your pictures,
sketched in the clarity of cold
night without moon. Sharpness of
line and image.
You draw me in, watching
the pale detail of a white lily emerge
beneath your hand. Erupted
yellow, the core.
I am walking in your world,
a journeyman of word reflections
from the mirror pools of observation
and chance encounter,
marked by typeface on white paper.
Mood and manner, mind and heart.
Extracts from the seizure of a moment
frozen in time.
I watch you move around your drawings,
from the near side of the bed,
as the sun streams in on your books,
on your folio,
and on your body bent to raise
the lily in the slow light of morning.
I picture you in words.
© Frank Prem, 2001