I am standing by the curb
At the end of my driveway,
Pretty much gazing off in the distance
At nothing in particular,
But the occasional hawk
Striking fear and irritation into
The personal space of the local
Mockingbird population.
Having wandered into the street
To follow the meandering air show
Is when I notice the treasure
At my feet. Anyone else
Might have claimed they felt
Like Lewis and Clark,
But my found object
Only made me feel
Like Pam Dixon.
There it was. A large textured,
Grained and heavily lined section
Of Palm tree bark, unevenly broken
On each edge, that would surely
Find its way onto or into
One of Dixon's future sculptures
Or paintings.
It spoke her name
By its mere appearance,
As surely as if it had
Been given a voice.
This is no minor event;
Tantamount to being able
To offer Picasso a brush
He might treasure,
Or Manuel Neri a section
Of marble only he would choose to sculpt.
I had managed to forage
Something Dixon would never
Have found without the aggravation
Of the hawk.
This is serendipity.
This is synergy.
This is surreal.
For it is the kind of item
No amount of money could procure
As an appropriate gift.
And while it may truly be of use,
It's discovery and delivery
Will give Me all the pleasure.
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