Treasure calls out from the most unlikely hiding places, “Ko ko, is anyone home?” Here I am, sitting in the seeds of the pomegranate, new born beginnings covered in sweet blood. Here I am, shouting out from the veins of a butterfly’s wing, carrying life like sap beyond our sight and hearing. Here I am, in the cracked voice of a grubby stranger, trying to pour out their life story at a frozen bus stop, having chosen you as the recipient. Who are we to deny these glints of gold?
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018
Tucked away treasures, walls dripping with gems in slow oil and running in watercolour. Tints mixed with time and talent, hidden under this bushel. Find us then, and carry us home, gaze on our given glory. But do not keep us under wraps, gathering no dust in your collection box, pinned like butterflies, paralyzed by formaldehyde frames, never to breathe the free air again. For to live we must dazzle you with the subtle play of motes in the sunlight bouncing off our surfaces, moonwalking in the craters of creation, and like you, we must sing the songs we were given.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com