Work of Art

I am constantly an artwork, gazing, moving, living through landscapes painted with the blood of every mother's womb. Scenes with echoes of meadows hover nearby. Waiting doe catch the scent of approaching stags and wonder, is there any end to this mystery of who makes sunflowers gyrate their heads with the sun and whistling steam engines turn wheels of time framed within bones and flesh that provide a pitcher to pour the world as me, imagined fresh each day, as flowers in a vase, displayed in front of an open window, ensconced by the splendor of creation, born for all to delight their eyes upon

the Earth.