The Possibility

The Possibility September 12, 2011

The early sun is spilling up

the thin March trees. Through

the barky silhouette, steam un-

furls from a neighbor’s roof.

Diffused by light, it belongs

to everyone. It seems to rise

from the center of the earth,

seeping enough of the fire that

never goes out to keep the day

going.

This is how I view Art, as a small

taproot into the center of things

that lets a flare of what matters

back into the air to keep us

going.

For some reason, artists and

lovers drill for this, never sure

where it might be. This is the

lineage we seek, the one

we’re already a part

of.

"Monet was nearsighted and painted what he saw."

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