Lately, Art says,

I've Been Thinking About Clumps

and for hours we drive through clumps

of mountains called ranges, clumps

of cars we call traffic, clumps of homes

we call towns. We speak in clumps

called subjects as we laugh in clumps

called laughter tokens. And sometimes

we’re silent in a flexible clump called silence.

I think of clumps of grief and clumps of joy,

clumps of celebration and clumps of time

when I forgot to wonder what comes next.

How many clumps does it take to screw

in a lightbulb? How many clumps make a day?

Something so satisfying about the clump.

Humble as dirt on the roots of a tree. Natural

as tufts of wheatgrass in the field.

Creative as a clump of atoms that, when infused

with heat from the sun, become a petunia.

Clumps of words make a sentence. Clumps

of notes create song. Clumps of time

build a friendship. And what is peace

but a clump of moments when we choose

not to fight? What is age but a clump

of memories? What is love but a clump

of surrenders? What is now but a chance

to be alive in this wondrous clump we call our life?

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, for Art Goodtimes