If I could carve her bust,
I would etch every wrinkle
as they lie. The tiny furrows
at the corner of each eye
would be last, beautiful
spiderwebs, they deserve
the steadiest hand,
the lightest touch.
If I could paint her countenance
I would adorn her hair with
each gray streak. Every
heathered runnel will be
defined. Cinereous and slate;
the shade must be exact,
these have been earned
they will not be subdued.
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