The hushed shivers of windswept trees,
Become a distant patter on the grass,
Like all such layering applause,
The many sounds transcend their frailer frames,
Again become so highly changed,
Harsh knocks to calm in shadows of great hills.

A taste for art, what kind, what kind?
Why, pictures made in words of course,
Why, pictures made in sparsely squares,
Why, pictures in a photo and a sketch,

The art became a techy taste,
Then beckoned me to learn with haste,
How to make art with such a taste,
How to make art at its own pace.

Digging into down low passes,
Spinning balls off outstretched forearms,
Diving, hitting, falling, missing,
Grasping thoughts to learn the ropes,
Sometimes grazing speeding fibres,
Nursing cuts and gaping smiles.