These fresh-painted walls share humble, quiet
invisibility as patrons roam
and weave bodies throughout our exhibit.
No one contemplates their space, plain as loam
in a farmer’s field, too blunt to accept
as powerful foundation, too simple
each face to even consider inept
or frail. Too pale to honor as temple’s
skin, though that’s what they are—wearing artists’
jewels in still elegance, as if their
own subtle landscapes don’t even exist.
As if these small framed ornaments compare
in majesty to our guardians, tall
as pines, displaying artists’ souls for all.
Roger Armbrust
June 2, 2011
