another one, from the same short story

[falcongrrl]

Arabesque

The artist closed her book,
returning it to the shelf
that stored the other
stories of her life.
When she looked up,
there were no riddles
in her gaze;
only knowing.

Don't make of us
more than what we are,
she said.
We hold no great secret
except this:
We know that
all endeavor is art
when rendered with conviction.
The simple beauty
of the everyday
strikes chords
as stirring as
oil on canvas,
finger on string,
the bourée in
perfect demi-pointe.

The difference is
we consider it art.

The difference is
we consider
art.

When it consumes us,
what consumes us,
is art:
an invisible city
we visit with our dreams

Returning,
we are laden down with
the baggage of
our journeys,
and somewhere,
in a steamer trunk
or a carry-on,
we carry souvenirs:
signposts,
guidebooks,
messages from beyond.

Some are merely
more opaque
than others.

--Charles de Lint