Assumptions (14)

I look at paintings and I think
How full and wondrous it must be
To see or dream, and then to make
That vision a reality.

How I would love, with colored brush,
To bring a world inside my mind
To canvas for the world too see,
And leave this drab gray one behind —

But then recall, with some chagrin,
My father was an artist who
Put brush and paint away for good
When he was only thirty-two.

For though he loved to paint, he was
In a too-common situation:
What he could see, he couldn’t match,
And so stopped out of sheer

Frustration

3 Beliefs – 2

Joy comes interlaced with pain
Everywhere we are, or go;
Golden childhood tales contain
Match girls dying in the snow —

All we think to say, or feel,
Frozen days by sunlight graced —
Bricks and mortar of what’s real:
Joy and pain are

Interlaced

Tiles

Entering for the first time, we saw a room, big and new, that smelled of newness and spare furniture; its most conspicuous feature was a series of brightly colored tiles covering most of the back wall. These followed no pattern my eyes could make out, but I was fascinated by them: it was as though, even then, my heart knew that art itself resides in the stories we imagine as much or more as any story explicitly told.