I recall a story, as many stories are, told in various forms this morning. I was reminded because I took a poem, my own, that I was sure was finished and tweaked the last line. It is included in this post. While tweaking I remembered the story mentioned above. An art museum guard was observing an older man gazing at an oil painting. The older man approached the painting and pulled a brush from an inner pocket. The brush was loaded with paint. The older man touched the brush to the canvas as the guard rushed to stop him, too late. It seems the older man was the artist and the painting was his. He felt it needed a little something in that spot on the canvas. It needed to be tweaked, improved.
March 8 in Maine
A new warm day whispers
Around the doors and windows,
Pushing into the mud beneath the pond,
Rousing the winter still there,
The turtle pays no heed.
G. M. Goodwin
2012
Playing Fair and Being Kind 