in other lands they make an art of love;
here love is art, and art is idleness,
a wasted function, for the wastrels.
the bare can sometimes be beautiful.
weeds can be mistaken for gardens. with luck.
nature has its own patterns, subject to decay
and accidential beauty. but we are gardeners,
carers for the earth; enhancers of patterns.
we see what is there and make it more there.
so it is with love. we can see what is there, make it more real.
this is art's heart.
idle? perhaps. the lazy accuse others of being lazy
to hide their own laziness: the map of misdirection has no goal
but to hide the treasure, truth. but who
accuses gardeners of being lazy? and dirt that cannot be seen
encrusts the hands of lovers.
(copyright 2004, Joseph Santini)