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Some may need a clock to tell them when to start and when to stop. But this is not the way to Art.

Does tree say to its sap, “Not now? Don’t feed my tendrils bending low, against the setting sun. No more your flow? The 17th hour is here!”

Or what of aloe plant so stark, behind its throned veneer. All hours its healing balm is near.

The Artist’s clock it does not stop.

The sky in dark and light its painted pictures makes. Moonlight tracing dreams, those long lost thoughts. And so in sleep the Artist works, and woes. He weeps.

He waits, creates poetic feats!

Don’t tell the Artist, “Count your hours,”—when to start, to stay, or stop. What rules are yours so all defining, to the Artist are quite confining!

Photo: Sunday night in Tucson at the 19th hour.

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