ARTEMISIA

Equivalent to the late, quaint portrait painter
He too was equipped with a brush and blank paper
With her smile in his mind 
He began to paint
The face of an angel. 
The portrait of a saint.
As he gazed up above with the sun in his eyes
It mattered to him none for his eyes were born blind
So how could he reflect each direct, correct stroke
With his eyes in her mind
Her soul was invoked
A parallel painter 
A counterpart creature
How could they not know each and every fine feature.

Carey Milton