The child isn't done with the painting,
but the painting is done, in mother's eyes,
who wants it the way it is--those
marvelous colours! Quick--take it away,
give him a clean page before
he puts on the muddy wash,
his finishing touch. 

To the child, each spoiled painting is as precious
as the next: the flaccid sheets spread out
to dry upon the floor, wrinkled
where paint lies pooled, or paper's
surface has curdled up in fibrous shreds
like mop strands under the
over enthusiastic brush.

And the water, that has bloomed with every dip,
from cherry red to purple to a
storm-cloudy grey and now a
greenish black, is as good as
paint, too. Slop it on! Watch it
run in those crooked little rivers
down the white.

Here is where mother's own
designs begin--untimely to rip
the sheet away and tack it up
for doting eyes. Isn't that
a nice one, dear? What is it? (Well, what
is it? Gravely the child studies it,
and tries to guess.)


From Questions About The Stars (Brick Books, 1998).
Used here with permission.