Poem: We Are Art

We are art,

a crimson stroke from a paintbrush,

casting, waning, flame-like light of the setting sun,

no such thing as silence in nature’s symphony,

Dylan’s raspy voice singing about changing times,

breeze makes the grass sing, the woodpecker pecks, your heart beats,

all together, making nature’s tunes,

knotted roots of ancient trees, your grandfather’s wisdom,

changing times makes the leaves brittle,

your grandmothers caring hands,

all part of the picture which nature paints.

 

Change is art,

death and dying,

live and living,

both leave an imprint on the portrait like a distinct curl of the pen tip,

human art captures a moment in time,

nature’s art is endless,

like the crashing waves on a shoreline,

in the distance, another wave rises,

nature’s art is never completed,

human art can be destroyed,

burning pages, melting paint, toppled statues,

are all part of the story nature is telling,

and hence, it’s art is immortal,

for as we hold the pen or brush,

nature holds us,

what we create,

nature creates,

our art is part of its art,

A singular piece, perhaps not even the main subject,

for we are part of nature and not a distinct entity,

and with the understanding that we are part of its art,

we are art.

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