She was given

immaculate sheets

of  space

made from cellulose fiber

to drop the stuff of her dreams.

She was given raw materials

Chemically broken in a vat

Pulp that was sprayed

On a fast moving screen

Before pressing the sheet

Smoother and smoother

Processed, dried, pressed

Passing between heated rollers

Living fabrics of her

Transformed into paper.

She was sitting at a desk

Facing her contents

Accepting the changes

Of her wood pulp

Learning

About density and weight.

One day skin touched white

Mind extended on paper

Mistakes, contradictions

Trials and inner worlds

Dark clouds and rain

Darkened the surface

Of sheets that were cut

“long grain”

and she ran her hands on it:

the surface of life

uneven, sometimes rough

to hold more clearly

the contrasts of drawing,

the shadows of sketching

those gestures she practiced daily.

How many rectangles

Of Canson paper

to draw the shapes in her cave

bring them to light

with the courage of graphite

on valleys of white

Pensive, she sat there,

Pencils and sketch pads

Emotions and inspirations

On the transformed raw material of her.

Immaterial, like music in her wind

Her self, grown and wiser

She wrote.