Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Painted Rocks

Is it wrong that I want to paint tiny rocks
smoothed by wind and rain
into perfect, mini canvases?

What more useless way to spend my time
than turning something small
and perfectly good already
into a tiny turtle,
a bright green bug,
or a curled up garden snake?

Much better things have I to do
than sit for hours
till my hands and shoulders cramp
till light bleeds from blue to grey
and my no longer youthful eyes
strain on that fine detail
of the spotted markings
of a rattler

This pursuit is
utterly without purpose,
my skill not good enough to sell.
Once done,
with nothing grand to show,
I hide my creatures
in the damp earth of potted plants;
hidden gems
signifying a moment
I chose to do what I loved
for no earthly reason at all.

4 comments:

Cassandra said...

Yippee for painting rocks and other seemingly senseless pastimes that make our hearts warm and smile a little.
Nice poem, La. :)

happy to make said...

Your poem perfectly conveyed the moment of concentrated joy of creating something just because we can. I love it!!

Sylvan Woman said...

Thank you for permission to play. Good one!

lakshmi said...

<3 :) Thanks, Ladies! XXXOOO Art in all forms makes me happy.