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?