The Hand's Forgetting

Unfolded the paper, grayed at the creases,

a child’s fierce tree, suns like fat bees.

Lines knew where they went then, no doubt,

just pure intent, pushing the crayon out.

Today, the window, a fire escape rust,

a brick wall, rain-streaked, covered in dust.

My hand, it knows the shapes, the angles there,

but the graphite wanders, a hesitant prayer.

Crumpled the sheet, it joins the others on the floor.

My small, old art, it doesn't live here anymore.

Just smudges now, a ghost of what I thought I knew,

a memory of a confident line, and nothing true.