Sketch like a Poem

I watched her artist's hand drift over the surface,
dipping into the sedimentary layers of white moonlight
spilled over a quietly rustling alter.
Her lines spread like cross-hatched shadows
at the slightest brush against the page, 
as she breathed her image into existence.

A thought formed on her forehead
and she turned her pencil upside down
flipping the hourglass on its head.
She withdrew her statement.  
Where seconds ago distinct outlines stood,
grey mist swirled in little eddies, agitated
by the disapparated presence,
waiting,
creating a new image in the negative space.