Growing Restless, poetry by Elizabeth Ricketson at Spillwords.com
NomadSoul1

Growing Restless

Growing Restless

written by: Elizabeth Ricketson

@LRicketson

 

Growing restless.
Very restless.
My two children, young,

No formal portfolio.
Just desire.
I knew I would work, hard.
Hadn’t I always?

Night fell particularly, dark.
Uneven brick sidewalks.
Ornamental iron streetlights
guided my way.

Figure drawing, third floor.
My supply-laden body, tore
up the stairs.
Once a factory building on
the East Side of Providence.

The smell of creativity
enveloped my senses.
Oil paint permeated the air
and my soul.
Dizzying.

My eyes closed, meditatively.
In hopes of
forever capturing
the moment.

For once and possibly the first time
I was exactly where
I wanted to be.
Where
I
needed
to
be.

Entering my future
greeted by
oversized beveled windows.
Stretched from floor to
ceiling.

Chipped white paint represented
character, not disrepair.
A worn wooden oak floor creaked with
a familiar warmth.
The high-ceilinged room, infinite
possibilities.

The hiss of steam introduced
the radiators
to each of us.

Easels surrounded.
An eight by ten
makeshift pine platform.
A model
would soon move
seamlessly from
one warm-up pose
to the next.

Students carefully found their spot.
Their place.
Easels adjusted.
The room electric
with anticipatory
conversation.

The journey was official.
The instructor.
The teacher.
The artist, Robin Wiseman.

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