Art is life. All the artists know it.
It is our language at its highest pitch.
It is the heart of each and every poet
elevated somehow by the stitch
of every breath. Who knew the day would come
when everything we thought we knew was wrong
is made more clear by each and every strum
and every truth is somehow swelled with song?
So time must pass, each writ must play its part,
each line, each poem and every day that strays.
Wisdom flourishes with skillful art.
Old age and art are fused in some strange way.
With every year that's passed we seek the glow
we have not suffered long enough to know.
7/1/2014
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