life is a gallery of art

==============================================

Life is a gallery of art
and I can walk down the halls
admiring the creative hand
that mixed the colours and laid stroke
upon stroke
upon stroke
to bring the curve alive in the face
and hands
and hips
of a beautiful woman
without stealing the canvas
and running home with it
to hide it away in hunger or pride.
most of the time.

I respect the artist and the sculptor.
Rodin has always been a favourite,
able to make stone awaken
to the point that jealous hearts
accused him of casting from corpses,
for they were of the blood of Salieri
and could not comprehend
the gifts of another, envious
and bitter, their suns eclipsed
by a greater light that stole
their place on pedestals they carved
in their lust for recognition
and their willingness to believe
that they were the only stars.

I have my own definition of art
as that which resonates with me
and makes me feel something more
than a mere impression of skill,
a thrill, a chill, a will to change
and rearrange the priorities of life
or at least to know a new appreciation
for women with freckles or red hair.
It is there, in the gallery,
where we find our quickened pulses caught
in gossamer and summer wind that spins us
into hearts like pinwheels, shiny toys
that bring the smile of a child
for whom all of life is a miracle of creation.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.