How much do we think ahead
to the light change, the word choice
to describe clouds traveling across sky
to become ground shadows flying
beneath our steps as we walk
or emerge from brush into painting?
Is the image developed play or a dance
that transcends creator and others,
blending minds, perception, spontaneous intuition
and intent, like the wanted child, a surprise
of sperm/egg melding, of DNA shaping
each being’s swirl of creation?
Do artists think through to the “right” outcome,
with purposeful stroke, foresee the essence
of finished feeling, or gasp with heart throb
when the work, locked into present time,
is no longer a wish, a pulsing of groin?
Perhaps all is within total flow,
after a mysterious change, a magical shift
of time and perspective, a tiny movement
or decision of light, color, shape, touch, word
that the profane turns, quickens,
to become sacred, and the piece
speaks for itself.