Remembrance
Today I would rather not make art
My brain feels like a deflated soccer ball
The trees are perfect
The sunlight is also perfect
as are the crickets, the white butterfly that rises
in a zippity pattern like a kite string,
and the dog sleeping under the picnic table.
The breeze, when it decides to stir,
is perfect.
The deer, the groundhog,
and all the silent creatures in the brush,
perfect, perfect, perfect.
Nothing I could write
could improve the scene
one iota.
Better to take a nap
and wake later
to a clap of thunder,
to an acorn falling,
or to the remembrance
of a book I forgot I was reading,
or perhaps a book I was supposed to write
serene artist 