My mother showed me early and often,
making for making’s sake
is a worthwhile way to spend a life,

Build the sandcastle, celebrate it
until high tide, no need to photograph it;
Waves doing what waves will do
is no reason to grieve
what is erased in their wakes.

Even when your canvas turns out like crap,
the act of painting is never wasted,
you can hate it, start something else tomorrow,

Fallen logs are made glorious vignettes
of tender plantings and moss,
all in a clearing no one will see but us,
where we can enjoy it
without accolade or compliment,

My father showed me today as we walked,
a new forested area she is making into art,
he said it used to be she would find open areas
to make lovely but she can’t help herself,
now she must infiltrate this thicket.

She will always grow to the size of her container, 
never bend to its shape-
always the tree, never the water.