There is ever poetry on the ridge in the greening and change of seasons that is a joy to behold. Even on the grey days there is a glory in the light as some sleep late in dreams and others hear the bells ring dawn’s first calling.
Some mix paint with words, or words with paint and some just dream that it is all a work in progress. For that it is as all is a work in progress.
Indeed there are times when a part of the painting is greater than the whole or when one word stands out in a poem to make a line turn into itself turn about and seem to write free and alone as the author pauses.
There is ever a rush of ideas, that cause a most curious this and that, as one brush stroke or well placed word may change the world forever. Perhaps the painter is bold while the poet is cautious for they are one in the work in progress for the betterment of all. Poetry, painting, fine art. So very near and dear, yet you are so near and dear with a voice like no other. I turn into paint and words, place my fingers on steel strings and make the violin sing wordless songs that dreams cause awakening. Rattle on the keys, sling the return when the bell rings and keep on typing because of poetry and the work in progress. As ever be well, with love, Stephen Craig Rowe