Wonder

I will make art whether or not I get a thing on the page
and when I cannot imagine I’ll have another thing to say,
because sometimes art is seeing and listening,
and not fingertips producing more.

I’m not just a writer when I feel like one,
lines easy and metaphors solid.
Something’s written across my insides when I pray for new eyes and ears,
and then see and hear
(and when I don’t? I’m a writer then, too).

I will see art, and it takes shape in acts of faith and a desire for wonder
that removes the haze so I can notice the way my little person
holds that tennis racket,
smallest one on the court, and it is beauty.
And I can hear the laughter of my daughter and my mother, recognize we’re giggling at all the same things.

I can see the way my youngest girl smiles so free,
how my middlest holds up old man beard-lichen to her chin and
tromps through a stream like the explorer she is.

I can recall the graceful curve of my oldest’s arms on the giant trampoline
and the delicate pink and white of the full bloomed rose,
ice cream dripping from a waffle cone,
water spurting from the sprinkler,
small animals made from rainbow bands as favors for
a sister’s birthday party, just because of love.

Writing is my way of saying yes, I have seen and heard wonder today,
and I saw it yesterday, too,
and with hope, tomorrow I’ll see more,
and sometimes I’ll stop in the middle of the almost evening
even though I should be making dinner
to tell you about it.

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