Thinking About Clumps

 

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