The Artist

I am no artist but in bed I can paint with my fingertip your breast, your mouth and cheeks, and surely your crooked smile that floats around your eyebrows as you sleep.

When the neighbors are gone and even the cricket quiet I am still to shy to sing the songs you taught me to the sleeping cat.

I am not a poet but I can describe your glance, your voice, the way you walk in the garden before coming to bed, even each separate pebble on the path that runs the twenty steps from here to there.

Han Yongwun (1879 – 1944)

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