Love comes hungry to anyone's hand.
I found the newborn sparrow next to
the tumbled nest on the grass. Bravely

opening its beak. Cats circled, squirrels.
I tried to set the nest right but the wild
birds had fled. The knot of pinfeathers

sat in my hand and spoke. Just because
I've raised it by touch, doesn't mean it
follows. All day it pecks at the tin image of

a faceless bird. It refuses to fly,
though I've opened the door. What
sends us to each other? He and I

had a blue landcape, a village street,
some poems, bread on a plate. Love
was a camera in a doorway, love was

a script, a tin bird. Love was faceless,
even when we'd memorized each other's
lines. Love was hungry, love was faceless,

the sparrow sings, famished, in my hand.

Love Song -Carol Muske-Dukes

A thousand miles apart, yet the same moon shines over us all.

-Su Dongpo

Fire Lily

Though a living cannot be made at art, art makes life worth living. It makes starving, living. It makes worry, it makes trouble, it makes a life that would be barren of everything-living. It brings life to life.

John Sloan