Portrait of a Woman

She holds the book to her breast
the pages bent, well read showing
the marks of time spent in communion
with the words within.
She looks out of her world
pensive with the doubts that plague
her, the fears that await her comings
and goings, the need for love,
the desire for self, for worth,
for touch.
Her fingers, on the crease of leather
the binding pressed, her thumb poised
her voice silenced in the thoughts
of love and life and the desire for
hot coffee, silken cream on scones
the moments alone when the mists
play against her window to the
morning lulled by the violins
and cello, the bassoon wails
into the space that fits all these things
that are now and will always be her

place.

The Artist

She sits at her studio bench, careful consideration
on her face, the reference sketches lie under the
paint swatches, the acrylics unopened arranged in
order of layer, the sable brushes, the minute tools
waiting for a decision to be made. The aluminum
casting is done, the rough miniature awaits the knife
for the finite details, that will follow.
She could get a 3D printer but the amount of money
wars with her lack of computer skills and the idea that
somehow she will not be able to create the same magic
in plastics that she has managed with aluminum and lead.
"The old ways are better instead," she mumbles as
she pushes her bangs away from her head.
The faded Tomb of Horrors tee shirt splattered with old
paint marred by the new strokes of drying paints
the small tears honor her favorite shirt, her small handles
turn the HB2 pencil in her hands rolling it back and
forth as she considers the final details before she turns
back to the paints.
Our hero awaits clasped in the alligator clips, the shavings
lie scattered below him like discarded armor. The artist
selects the base paints, setting to work, a mildly curious
perplexed expression writes itself across her freckled
cheeks. She adjusts her glasses, clips back the rebellious
bangs, massages the crick in her neck, remembers she has
a cup of coffee. She sips at it realizing that the ever
curmudgeonous Gaming store owner has reheated it while
she was lost in her meditative trance. Thankful she gives
him the blessing of light and hope that Talos will be more
forgiving the next time he call down his name in vain.
"The coffee is good, may the patron saint of miniatures
bless this peice as I already know she should."
The hero awaits the birth of face as the primer is washed
into place, the artist smiles to herself as her art takes shape.