the tree sways in the wind,
leaves drift left and right,
downward and downward,
baby rocking in mother’s arms…
Art
When it was all over, I looked at the dot with a tail curling on the inside of my wrist.
“Why did you want a comma?” the artist asked, cleaning their tools….
the eyebrows and the eyelashes
are out of order,
the moon is pock-marked,
I’m standing on a tilting plane…
it’s so loud, I can’t hear everything
at once, the yellow is thrumming, insisting…
I, too, paint sunflowers.
Color dances in the light, …
I once figured out, a four step process, for making art…
Magritte speaks to me,
even when I can’t make out the words…
Art changes, from that thing you do for yourself, into a task you commit to…
Inertia drags hard, even if it brings you joy, because opening the floodgates…
How does one follow
the sun to survive…
Daily Poets 