I looked across the valley

where a long row of camel-backed hills stood 

blanketed in living stubble, 

               painted in vibrant spring greens

its beard pine, and maple, cedar, elm and birch  

clustered in irregular blemishes 

that did nothing to the disturb 

the beauty of the whole face

and I stared at each of those monoliths

at each leaf on each tree of the forest

and I understood that each was a masterpiece

created by an artist at the top of his or her game

a masterpiece seemingly penned with a yawn

and I looked down at my hands

and I thought of all of my works 

so at odds with the world that created me

and understood that the best of them

cast in the best light

and polished to the nines

presented in frames of solid gold

would only warrant one scoffing titter

in comparison to the drafts

cast into Nature’s trash bin

I try never to compare

If I did, I would have to ask myself

what am I doing here?

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