geese left and frogs stopped croaking / crickets went quiet and grasses went brown / rain came down harder but never soaked in / squirrels dug up the bulbs and store shelves went empty / I’m always working but nothings getting done / prices doubled and yields are just half / birds are singing but it’s just crows.
winter gales
scrubbing the night
of my dreams
Lessons on Perspective
Entering the art museum, I enter my past. Who I once was, who I always wanted to be, yet who I never became. All those years of training. The sculpted lines, feathered brush strokes, and the weaving of threads all coming together in the dream of another me. They say that those who can’t, teach. This, of course, is rubbish. Those who teach have no time for themselves. Only time for others. What is interesting is that when I talk to other artists, I ask them what they think about in the museum. The lines? The colors? The history? No. Not one has ever mentioned these things. What many of them mention are the hands. The hands of the artist that made the work. What were their hands doing and why were their hands doing what they did. As I leave the museum I stare at my hands and think of how old they are and about how little they've actually done to contribute to the person I always thought I would be.
Monet’s garden
a student asks who
his teacher is
