I am making art of the afternoon.
I don’t mean
that I’ve allowed all the distractions to triumph –
reading other people’s blogs,
turning too often to my smart phone,
remembering that I have not yet gone
walking on my new knee,
emailed a parishioner, visited my friend —
so important to me in her final days,
and I don’t mean that I’ve allowed
the hours to run down
from that sunrise inspiration.
No, this isn’t pejorative at all.
I am making this art of the afternoon,
this porch-rocking reflection,
this not driven to be submitted or juried art,
this summer art, free.
It is art to be shared, yes,
shared with a child or a friend or a hundred friends,
or with strangers I may never know.
It’s the watercolor or the poem
the quilt or the new lyrics
to an old tune,
the clay on the wheel, the part in the play
that says something precious,
or passes a thread of hope though pain.
After the siesta of my middle years
comes the post meridian art
the art of my age,
a new waking up to creativity.