Art Making

It is Wednesday,
and I put my work on pause.
I find my old art bag,
carry watercolor pencils 
to Battlefield Park.
My leggings pick up hitch hikers,
their bristles clinging to me,
as if I were a spring tree, and they, leaves.
And suddenly, I am six again, wearing fuchsia,
new sneakers already muddy. 
Uncaring if my art is good
or I am a good person. 
There is only color as pigment meets paper, 
act of outlining softening the tip, 
rounding out the sharpness of life.
There I sit, under an ancient maple,
middle of the week, making art.
Finally, unjudgmental.

-Katherine Gotthardt