For art's sake

Walk in the woods this afternoon.
Trees full of orange leaves
and brownish branches.
Thousand thoughts:
What is art?
Wittgenstein bound to my heart.
"Art is whatever people call art,"
             He said.
I fell deeply into darkness,
while I held in my dominican fingers
an I, a me and  myself.
        "Art arises out of me, my child.
         No-me-no-art.
         No-art-no-me
         To dance
            These bright streets."
Am I art itself?
Am a creation
That see itself?
In my steps in the woods,
I am formed
To create an universe.

At the beginning

At the beginning we enter, dragons in late summer, to embrace a new day.

Each of us, dressed on fire, touches the sun and laments.

The sun kisses us high and low to no end.

How many more hours will the sun rise to warm the ashes and clear the forests?

How many happy mornings will fall quietly?

Nobody knows but the  early morning dews.

So, we start.