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art of the day

Across the road, my father
ages badly, measures all as loss
So I try(I am trying) to treasure what is
given as we age. Today, words
shuffle themselves as if they might
be a poem but I trip over the dog who wants my
attention and in that flash of frustration—
for one moment
I remember All these moments,
All these years, when attention is
scattered. This minute when our specific art
whatever we hoped to create
is just out of reach, tantalizing
poem or story, painting, song, sculpture
or intricate sweater or that cake, five layers
of lemon crumb, with dark fudge filling
frosted in pink ganache—
for the hundredth time, life interrupts the
Idea of what we want to Create.
kids dogs spouses jobs parents bills errands cats
step in, jump up and down shouting Look!
over and over and over to help us learn
Let go of that tight breath, that lost poem
that cake which is not the true art we build.
Here is life, so patient and maybe
some days,
eventually,
we are old enough to see—
we are building not a sweater not a story
but our shared life and attention is all we
have to give, attention is what creates this,
the only art of our lives.

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