The prompt: Write a poem addressed to an artist, living or dead. I chose the British sculptor, Andy Goldsworthy, whose work I admire very much.

You gather your leaves, your twigs, your rocks, your flowers,
then wait for the moment, the exacting time of creation.
You place and replace, create and recreate.
Everything changes, again and again.
You wait, you document, you photograph perfection, only
to see it dissolve before your eyes.

You write, “Movement, change, light, growth and decay are the lifeblood of nature.”

The lifeblood in decay and the beauty of creation in
its destruction.
Every day, you gather
your leaves, your twigs, your rocks, your flowers.