A Master’s Piece

“The world is but a canvas for our imagination.” Henry David Thoreau

Its eye that makes the world

Write something that comes from my hand – a mere plan to stay on route of the breath that flows through the flute of something bigger than I could ever know, than any one could ever show, unless it’s felt and it propels you forward, with wings of its own off to its own place, just like home.

So with each puff of air that takes me there, I wonder and conjure and get swept up in its own thunder that takes me there. It waits for me there. It breathtakingly wills me there. Not for thrills that are quickly shaken, not for mistakes, although I’ll make them, but for my little bit to be done, to round up the fun of the great bigger picture to be hung above the fireplace while a pipe is lit and feet gently rest and the universe leans back on its armchair to admire it there on the wall.

So stand tall – every smudge is a must to be made, every shade and every blade – a significant part in the ultimate of ultimate work of art.

Whether a business deal or a simple meal, let it be made through an effortless surge greater than your own need to emerge, but a fine contribution of what your tune can do and sing it softly in the air to show that you just do care.

Perhaps it’s just a passing word, a mindful glance, a steady hand or a friendly chance encounter – whatever the offer that is part of your merit, each just a speck sketched on a canvas so ready to be, the world so ready, so ready for me.