Classic Poem

I am a clumsy painter.
Lying on my bed, sleep not coming, finger tracing across my chest, I limned your nose, your lips, even the dimples that spring in your cheeks.
Then, trying to limn the slight smile that ever hovers round your eyes I rub it out a hundred times over.

I am not a sure singer.
After the neighbors had all come home and the crying of the insects was stilled, I
was about to sing the song you taught me when I became shy of the dozing cat, and I dared not;
And so, as the passing wind fluttered the paper of the door, I joined quietly in.

I don't seem to have the makings of a lyric poet.
“Joy,” “sorrow,” “love”: I don't want to write about such things.
Your face, your voice, your carriage, I want to write about those as they are;
I also will write about your house, your bed, even the little pebbles in your flower garden.