Ceci n’est pas une pipe

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?


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