The Lopsided Bird

I used to draw them, swift and clean,

The finest birds you'd ever seen.

With charcoal wings and crayon eye,

They'd seem to leap right off the sky.

But now I try, for little hands,

My drawing falters, understands

My shaking wrist, my failing sight.

The bird is wrong, not taking flight.

A smudged critique, a crude mistake,

For goodness gracious, for pity’s sake.

That simple skill, it slipped away,

And left me here, this clumsy day.