Drawing

I wish I could draw. I wish I could put pencil to paper and coax out pictures. I wish I could paint the half eaten apple on the counter in front of me in brilliant watercolors. But I can't. My hands are clunky, and my fingers refuse to put what I can see in my mind on paper. So I write instead.

I write about the apple, forlorn. A warm autumn red on one side, fading into a fresh green on the other, with shades leaking in between. Its width surpasses its height, giving it a stout roundness.  A bite is missing on the left side, and rough whiteness interrupts the color. Shadows grace over the top, where the flesh dips to where the stem, stubby and short, proudly sprouts.

I cannot draw this apple for you.