It’s not a work of art if the wind carves it,
if water pours down the lower path and tumbles
stones along the wall of rock. It’s not a work
of art if a mountain goat bunches four thin legs
to balance on the precipice as you go by.
It is a work of art if someone wants to keep
the sight of great curving horns and paints it,
writes it, sculpts it, makes a film. It is a work of art
when we pull it out of the drawer of memory
to live it again, feel it again. It is artifice to step
out of the moment and back in time. It is artificial,
but, oh, we need it. We are so very good at it.
Monday, June 29, 2009
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Terrific poem, Liz! The rhythm is so organic, it practically reads itself. I love the goat bunching its four legs. And I love the last sentence. Wonderful!
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