The Artist

She has no name

But it doesn't matter

She's an ideal of femininity

Her hair both soft and constrained

Soft waves rolled to frame her face

The light from the window frames her face

Her beauty

Her youth

I have no judgement, I see her intellect, her fire

I know it will cause her problems in time

Her dress, darkness and light

Olive green, probably velvet

Draped to take up most of the frame

She still thinks romantic love makes life easy

I don't have the heart to tell her

I can only watch.

The man, 

He has no name, but I can see his purpose

Pen in hand, he sketches as the woman watches

I'm watching too

While he draws plans for a church, a school, a city hall

He sits in the shadows while she shines in the light

His plans will be remembered, their love will not

Their hands, tentatively touch

I see the first blush of love

All I can do is watch

While people rush past me to see sculpture

Post-modern paintings, artifacts

But I stand here

Every year and watch

Wondering if they had their first argument

Their first baby, their first betrayal

Maybe she became the writer she always wanted to be

But every year, she sits next to him

Watching him sketch

Waiting for her turn.