I think of the Art I don’t see into,
Can’t see into,
Won’t see into.
But then, I see a unique thread
Bringing me back from the dead
Holding on to life in every days’s asking to survive
Within meaning
Lost in thinking’s sleep routine
Like a blanket that won’t give in
To the new morning.
Art is making the bed of reality
To bring in the sun light
To grow the soul
In the countless steps of days
Arranged in order and place
Mastering the chaos of mess
In the little things you arrange,
Like how you dress
In the meaning of your intent
By holding beauty in regard
As part of the measure to create
In the purpose of what you appreciate
As you make tiny somethings
Into belongings.
But Art engaged, in day-by-day steps,
Will build in meaning’s attempts and bring manifestations.
So it is not great works of Art that we must seek
But to touch each tiny thing
With its acknowledged place and being.
Small is enough, but more may grow
When we open creativity’s window
In Art’s practice of reaching
In every moment of time and place.