The Spike Poem Anthology II

by Zephyr Spark

Your Treasures are Yours Alone

Every time, I look at my finished work and try to smile.
The uneven surface is fine, the shine is still there.
But then I see the finished works of others
Their unblemished surfaces and inherent eloquence are overwhelming.
And make mine look childish
Now, I look at my work ashamed to fall so short.
To put my whole heart into breathing it to life
Only to find my heart is shallow, unfit for life.
But then someone told me I know what I felt.
The absorbing moments when I tempered the iron in the forge
When I cooled it in the gentle river
When I put my heart into my work
That craft, that process, that creation is my own experience that no one can steal.
My experience of creating art, meaningful to myself if no other, is still my experience.
No one sees the flaws of our work more than our own eyes
Some find smoothness where we see edges
Some hang on the wall what we would throw away.
So nothing we make is only flaws.
The mind we had when making, was true, ungraspable art.
Treasure it like a cloud of gold melting into the sunlit sky.