the big old quiet of the electric house is somewhere around me humming incessantly with a heater .   a cat is which becomes smoothness neatly into
my lap folding upon whisker self of darting blackness the night outside
which compares with complains with rain through wind and trees my
window against and there is between it all the tiny miracle of a chime


                slowly    .

Art
is like

a universal prayer
in the language

of colour,
shape,

design and pattern,
but with an

infinite span
of interpretations

seeking
an answer