Golden baby curls bent low over white paper.
Two fat crayons clutched in tiny fists.
Baby Doll hung on one hip with
plastic cheeks covered in sticky kisses.
Drawings and dolls, always together.
Teenaged fingers trailing leather spines
through stacks of crusty books while
wooden floors whine under penny loafers.
Poetry or prose? One book only, miss.

Darwin or Degas?

Hot sun marking time, standing in line
For September of a new semester.
Biology? Go left.
Art? Go right.

Both? It isn’t done. Move along now.
Paints dried out and poetry silenced.
Patients ringing bells, crying, dying.
Med cards sandwiched between
soccer and spelling. Harried, hurried.
Sneaky soul-stealing years, splitting apart.
Gold ‘n silver curls bent low over white paper.
Pastels gripped in strong fingers
That have touched and loved strangers.
Many, waxy, now cold, cheeks caring-kissed.
Shyly. slyly, soul-reviving images surface, healing.
Resolute now, truth-telling, and conventions be damned.
Perfumed with paint, dressed in pastel dust,
long ago lovers embrace. Art and Science engaged

at last, a passionate affair!
Arranged by the soul, blessed by the Spirit.