The Days of the
Artist
the
measure of an artist is not judged by the number of his patrons
it
is not a race unless we are talking about the race from birth to
death
the
amount of snow that has fallen is measured in inches
she
measures herself knows who she is yet keeps her humility
the
clock is ticking the days are numbered a limited few
there
is no rescue for the small creature running on the wheel
minutes
ticking the hands spin on the face of the clock
the
pages of the calendar are flipped by a terrible wind a hurricane
yet
she must spend long hours at hard labor or hard hours at long
labor
there
are no shortcuts she is in a constant state of creation
she
hosts her muse an honored guest her day will come soon enough
the
sun will not shine a cloud will spread over the sky the hour will
always be
twilight
February
4, 2015
3 comments:
Oh this really hits my heart, Annell....the small creature running on the wheel, the calendar page flipped by a terrible wind, the long hours of hard labor or hard hours of long labor......it is what we are called to do, gives us purpose and fulfilment. I seriously love this poem.
"she hosts her muse an honored guest her day will come soon enough"
You always write from a deep, sensitive place inside. This is wonderful and touching and what I feel as well.
I am glad she has these days...labouring...hard work and yet i hope so very fulfilling...a safe place to be herself and share with others..most especially your muse xo
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