The sound of one hand clapping,
a tree falls in the wood
Where no one is near to hear it
The sound of a flower opening
Footsteps crunching snow
Shovels scrapping ground below it
The sound of a page turning
Thoughts, images, leaping and
Hopping, racing all around it
The sound of a body wiggling
Softly stretching or dancing
To the music as she feels it
The wolf moon rises shining
Shudder to imagine the howls
That echo when he realizes it
Art is creating and making
Something new or repurposed
There is a reason to be it
II
The handy spatula scrapping
Along the inside of the glass jar
To get the last and all of it
Post deluge, raindrops dripping
Through the downspout
Persistent rhythm of it
Success results from planning
Sweat as much as luck makes
What is adjacent possible for it
The single act of creating
Making anything substantial, or not,
focuses your attention on it
The sound of humanity making
A ruckus, or exchanging something
Wet and wonderful, tops all of it
Artificial stuff can be revolting
We can return humanity
Back to be at the center of it
So Sherlock, we can't go scrolling
Trolling, lost among the detritus;
Reach out, together we'll survive it
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