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# Roberta's Little Creatures
- URL: https://www.merionwest.com/robertas-little-creatures/
- Published: 2026-05-16T14:40:56.000Z
- Updated: 2026-09-01T22:23:47.000Z
- Description: Steve Sibra
- Author: MW Editors
- Tags: Poetry, Arts

## An ekphrastic of Roberta Hahn Edward's 2025 watercolor of a "Little Creature"

> She started when still quite young,

> creating little husks of life

> on watercolor paper, bringing them

> into being, wringing them from pores

> in the sheet, bright and strange

> little monsters, never mean or dirty

> crippled by Nature’s twist, but happy

> nonetheless, wisps of blue or tan,

> perhaps part Man but mostly wrong,

> three legs or eyes on top, curved

> at the spine, limping, ragged

> never meant to be hers, yours or mine

> As she grew older, they stayed

> always just a brush stroke away –

> evolved, became larger, more articulate

> some could not wait to speak her name

> into her ear, when no one else was near --

> it was the oddest of notions, easiest

> not to stop and give it thought

> or reason, no matter time or season

> just little friends, growing bigger

> as she stood in the cold farmhouse

> letting them live on the tabled page

> she could not say when they started

> riding on her hip, or in a pocket

> or shoe, hanging from the nape just off

> the collar of her shirt, maybe in hem

> of skirt, never doing or meaning harm

> just little friends, quite quiet, calm

> and above all safe and warm

> Did they come to speak to her? Oh, yes

> in whispers at first, never to intrude

> thoughtful, far from rude, observant

> perhaps to offer warning or caution,

> she came to learn there were some people

> out there, intent to do her wrong,

> staring her way a bit too long as she

> walked on the street, scuffing feet,

> speaking out loud to the invisible

> painted little friends so near to her

> She left one day, not a word to any

> of her species, just disappeared,

> none knew why or where, a knock

> on her door but no one there, even though

> her flesh and bone sat upright at table’s

> edge, staring straight ahead, lips

> just barely moving, breath in, breath out

> sun rose and fell, no one home at all

> but a small puddle of red, by the end

> of her brush, drying slow on table’s top

> nothing left to see or hear, or be said

> no place to start, or pause, or stop

### Steve Sibra grew up on a small farm in eastern Montana. His work has appeared in numerous journals over the past fifteen years. Steve's full-length poetry book, [*Shoes For Baby*](https://www.amazon.com/Shoes-Baby-Steve-Sibra/dp/B0B11M3Q4Z?ref=merionwest.com), was published in 2022 by Swallow Press.