NPM: Boy Botticelli

A small boy sits, pen in hand
His curly head bent over a journal
Focused and studious as any scholar
But instead of algorithms or anatomy
He scribbles nonsense
A dark tangle of lines
Circling and repeating
Jagged edges, overlapping curves
I sit behind him
Watching as he sketches
And wonder if perhaps
I’m seeing it wrong
Is there order in the chaos?
Does each intersecting line
Represent a connection of
Will and motion
Intent and execution?
Is that beauty I see
In those shaking strokes?
Do they waver because
They are trembling–
Overwhelmed with their own potential?
This child-artist scribbles on
Etching out who-knows-what:
A cat? A house?
A bowl of spaghetti?
It is all and nothing
And the paper is filled with
A lot of nothing special
But to me, in this moment
He is a master
And his work holds
All the wonder and grace
Of a Botticelli


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