There’s something about the eyes,
That gaze that sees the connections,
The intersection of line, curve, form
And essence. One set of eyes in a
Thousand penetrates and perceives
The length, breadth, width and weight–
Not to mention the spirit–of what is.
There’s something about the mind,
That marvelous, endlessly energetic
Engine alive with creative possibility,
Constantly arranging and rearranging
Shapes and colors, jig-saw pieces
In the puzzle of existence, in an effort
To make sense of it, to understand.
There’s something about the hands.
New worlds flow from those fingertips,
Populating blank canvas or the heavy
Whiteness of sketchbook pages or
Etched into once cold, dead, gray
Clay. Everything those hands touch
Pulses forever after with life currents.
There’s something about the soul:
Vulnerable, impressionable, hungry
For raw material, helplessly in love
With life, gloriously Technicolored,
Prism-like, mysterious, wonderfully
Humane–finely, divinely designed.
It labors, gives birth, enriches us all.
