Poetry

---

God drops His
tiny Styrofoam pellets
from the sky so delicately.
No sound; no pound
upon my windshield.
Then He stirs them
like whisking dry ingredients
in the wind;
a folding and twisting wind.
They swirled in front
of my car like marbleized paper
in three-dimensional motion.
So what do You call it
Performance art?
Call me mesmerized,
Glad You were watching
the wheel while I got
caught up in it.
How long was I gone?
Now I am back
from the abstract.
What are you saying?
You can take anything
and move it
and create art.
Well then,
do that with your
People - that same
kind of thing.
It all flowed and
none of it crashed.
It was light as a
light-stepping dance.
Spontaneous,
like Jackson Pollack.
Pour it on out -
do it like that.
H. Stone © 2005

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE