Good thing thoughts are ghosts

“But I am not artistic.” 

Malarkey. 

Zeros and ones are art.  

Before there was nothing and now there are zeros and ones and the machine whirs. 

Cars that won’t go and then go are art.  

Wrenches and grease under finger nails.

Oxygen is art.

There was a can of worms and now there is not and oxygen flows with ease.

Comfort is art.

Restless with pain and they come on rubber soles, make adjustments, murmur in soothing tones and now there is sleep.

Roads are art.

Skinny and congested, then torn up and ragged, then wide and velvety.

Love is art. 

A soothing touch on a creased brow.  A smile that crinkles the eyes.  A deep breath in a hug.  A belly laugh.

So what if the second grade teacher in Coquitlam said you couldn’t sing. 

What did they know. 

What right did they have to crush your voice.  

Open your mouth & let the air weave through your cords.  If there is noise, you can sing.

So what if your sister draws and paints and people like it.

There isn’t a measuring stick with room for one.

Maybe judgement is the criminal.

Was there grass and cottonwoods and now windows that glow and the smell of cookies?  That is art.

Maybe definitions block the way.  

But this word means that.  

The definition is judgement in its own way, creating a wall.

Good thing thoughts are ghosts.

The rumble of the train, metal wheels on metal tracks.  

The raven in the distance, its body moving as it caws.  

The sound doesn’t carry like the train.

Their second grade teacher didn’t crush their voice.