The rain painting the grass with mud is the line I copied into my notebook. Rain making a mess of a lawn and you still call it painting. My husband was the same about the path, he never once minded it churned up in February. Where were you when you watched rain do that, was it somewhere you lived as a child?
Beauty is around you and in you.
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"Art is the life only foolish miss, so don't be one."
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The rain painting the grass with mud is the line I copied into my notebook. Rain making a mess of a lawn and you still call it painting. My husband was the same about the path, he never once minded it churned up in February. Where were you when you watche
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Beauty is around you and in you.
Ever since I landed on this earth
The birds were singing
The trees were dancing
The rain was painting the grass with mud
And so are now
I may lay into passing away and bequeath
The art
That accompanied me through my living days
Beauty is not ephemeral, never was, never will be
But art is, was and will forever be
The vital signs of poetry pulse through my veins, and so does on yours
They've been with you your whole life, waiting for their verse on your heart
Look at it
Look once more
Look how many times are needed for you to understand
To belong
Make your verse, live in one
Art is the life only foolish miss
So don't be one
Thoughts
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The verse waiting on your heart your whole life is the part I sat with. I do nights in a care home and there is a woman on my floor who can still say a whole poem she learned at nine, on days she cannot remember lunch. That is the waiting, right there. Was there one sitting in you before you wrote this?
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Pushing back on the last two lines. Calling people foolish for missing art is the one cold spot in a poem that is not cold anywhere else. Half the women in my chair work doubles and have not had a spare hour since 2019, and they are not fools. Did you mean it that hard, or is that just how it came out?
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the bequeathing bit stopped me. you talk about leaving the art behind like it is an actual thing with an owner. do you have stuff written down somewhere that would genuinely go to someone, or is it more the idea of it?
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The rain painting the grass with mud is the line I copied into my notebook. Rain making a mess of a lawn and you still call it painting. My husband was the same about the path, he never once minded it churned up in February. Where were you when you watched rain do that, was it somewhere you lived as a child?
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Just realized I messed up a bit with the term "ephemeral", it should be quite the opposite. Haven't practiced my english for a while, I apologize. (I hope it, at least, makes sense)
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'landed on this earth' - wait, do you mean it literally, or more like arriving somewhere brand new where everything sings?
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Very beautiful poem, indeed. Made my day!
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