Over the toes of a frowning geometric
giant, a chipmunk scurries,
and calla lilies twist and thrive
beside glaring glass balloons.

Meringues of crystal float
languidly around a twilight lake,
a little ballerina's feet kick from the
trunk of a shaggy copper tree.

Upon the hill stand solemn sunset spears,
ivy creeps daintily over the
ornate whitewashed gazebo.

And between the reeds,
a fragile vibrant fire burns of glass,
tongues of scarlet, vermilion thrusting in a cloud, upward to the stars.

They're lovely. Really,
the marble glowing subtly,
and the bronze, deep, strong
people, shapes, an impossible
titanium tree. Immortal, almost.
They will be so for centuries.

And the callas, the moss, the squirrels, they are lovely too, and unique. But the chipmunk will fall prey to foxes, trucks,
or snow, that exquisite murderer.
The plants will wilt and wither,
flowers fading in the dappled shade.
Art is ever. Life, in all its glory, is here and now.

But though the fire of Chihuly's hands will thrive through rain, the dancer will through blizzards hold her grace, they will not know the sunrise. Through their
game of eternal chess the players will never taste the wind or hear
the buds of daffodils stretching,
yawning to life.

Sculptures are safe,
sophisticated, set in solemn stone.
Life is wild, careening unpredictable
through the centuries.
But though the art is proud and permanent, though never
will it die,
neither will they live.