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