If I could paint,

each day I’d be at my easel

painting what I think I see

across the pond,

or if I could carve,

each day I’d peel away the wood

and find the loon, or heron or duckling

and try to get the wing just right,

or if I played the violin,

or flute, or mandolin

I’d make up music to say

what words can’t say,

and play for anyone out there

who will listen.

So, every day

I search for words

that paint and carve and sing

and say what comes to me

from who knows where.

That’s when I rush to take this pen

and write those words

before they vanish in the air,

and then I wonder why,

yes, why. Why make art?

Why take this precious time

to make what never was before,

as if it matters?

Perhaps it’s just because I can

and I love the way it feels

to write astonished words.

And so, no matter what,

I do.