Ghost Lines

Her hand held the pencil tight.

A small furrow in her brow.

Each line, a fight.

I watched her from the window now.

Words crossed out, like mistakes.

Then new ones, just as frail.

The page a field of tiny aches.

What good is it, to fail

so small, so often, on a leaf

of paper, thin and white?

A smudge of lead, a quiet grief

for thoughts that lose their light.