Seven years of age, and such a
grasp on what is real and not.
My son tells me,
his expression severely
serious, stony eyes do not blink,
“I never saw a picture of a French
What treachery our eyes are subjected
to, and still we see.
I could paint a canvas of striking
imagery with words, yet they are
not images, merely scribbles
against some paper scraps I had
lying near me, reciepts,
and blank notecards intended for study,
half-sketched ideas preserved.
Is it not the idea and the feeling
captured in the artwork
we are to consider,
is it, simply, not a pipe?