October 29, 2024

This poem is assembled (with a few creative liberties) from excerpts of various collages I discovered in my mother’s house.

What is art, anyway? Water, light blue? A pile of branches? I know 
looking ripens things, even the sound of quiet, any strange loveliness 
that reminds me of what I already have. I can’t concern myself 
with bookends. Instead, I throw my paint at the center of the big canvas. 
What can I say? I am an emotional creature, like any average person, 
and we all want to be heard, which is almost indistinguishable 
from being loved. Am I learning? Am I being of service? Am I kind? 
These are the questions I pose. I don’t expect a direct answer. 
My eyes search the mist, beholding. At every vacancy, I blink and try again. 
The eyes looking back are bright as promises.