I manipulate clay.

...into a story 
'bout a god that creates, 
spoken through the form
of this sculpture,

...which isn't even mine.

Hi. What's shakin'? 
I'm still makin' 
art. 

Grasping into mist
in subtle fields
bringing back nothing
for no one to see. 

Nothing clever really. 
I did not make the
color or the form or
the eye that cherishes.

Nor did I make the
musical notes that
compose the rainbow 
of sound
or the ear that listens.

I did not define 
the words I use
nor did I teach anyone 
the language. 

And what of the order? 

The meaning
that symphony
that reaches out
to the place 
where you are touched. 

Where does that come from? 

Art is listening,
like tuning into some station, 
could be from anywhere. 

And what's discovered 
was already there 
waiting to bloom 
in the light 
of your awareness.

Artists create nothing. 
Nothing at all 
you see. 

And no one ever has. 

No one has created 
a single blade of grass
or the sand in clear glass 
or even a single speck
of empty space.

We are given the seed
and the soil and a universe
to make it grow. 

We are given a spark
and a torch and 
a desire to see.

We are given a life 
with a mind and a hunger
to know. 

It's all laid out for us... 

As if someone 
had us in mind
when no one 
created nothing... 

Nothing at all. 

© 1998 by David Bozzi