To The Artists

"The artist must be a prophet, not in the sense that he foretells things to come, but that he tells the audience, at the risk of their displeasure, the secrets of their own hearts." -Saul Bellow

Thank you to the artists: You who stroke peace with the brush. You who kill millions with a leap or the unfolding of a développé. Thank you. You who with stout lungs and sweaty fingers wring out the voices of brassy instruments. You, there, with your clay filled fingernails and your hair tied back, I know what you are doing. Thank you. And you, young one, with your boondoggle lanyards and your sash of merit badges, there is hope for you yet. You flower bandits, grassy sculptors of yards and beds. I know when you are most comfortable and it isn’t in Winter or Fall or Summer. No, I have not forgotten you with your bevels, sandpaper, and your half fingers. You are beautiful. Thank you, you sons of Nature, letting out your filigreed lines, fine as flax and so enticing to the fish whose own rainbow of art comes leaking out the scales. Thanks to you voices, escaping like angels from the dark throat of the devil. He’s swallowed most of us already. Thanks to you confectioners of fine food. My belly is speaking loudly and with a smile this evening. And you needlers, yes you, stitching away our nakedness with such poise. I cannot bear to be naked most of the time. Thanks to you prophets, one and all, propheteering with and without profit, you know who you are. I have the secret you’ve known all along: I’m thanking all somehow.