The Artist.

The Artist.

There are few gifts

Freely given

Gazing up at the sky

With wide, white-rimmed eyes,

As a black snake uncurls

Beneath a shadowed rock

Releasing the evil

Coiled around its soul

It has never known any other

Way to be

It gives him solace in the sunshine

As he basks.

The artist in you is a creationist

Manufacturing a world

From pots of glue, pastels and oil paint

Bits of cloth

Lost and found

Waking to a wonder

Not as a new religion

But the frown of worry

Is well worn, less deeply,

Even as the effort of giving

Taxes what remains.

The shadows at the corners

Fight to gain control

The snakes are very active

First thing in the morning

And last thing at night

It is in their nature

To capture the imagination

Without venturing too far

From the safety of shadow

As bright stars beat a retreat.

Your beauty inherent

Finds a way to capture

The perfection of a moment

At a glance.