So what of Art?

I don’t do art. I breathe art. It’s my fuel, my coffee, my life. It’s evident in everything I do and everything I am. It’s in the way I dress and in the way I wrap gifts. It’s all over my home, in the basket of candles and the cart of books—of Poe, Hawthorne, Willems, and Seuss; and Emily, Rowling, Carlin, and Clarke; of Beatrix, Burton, Southworth, and Charles ; and Steve, Kevin, Moliere, and Anne among others. It's in my ice bucket, occupied not by cubes of ice but paint brushes, and in my red kettle plant pot. It just can’t be contained by canvases bound by frames, when it starts to simmer in and seep out of my head, as I see the colors around me take shape to form words and pictures, poems and stories, rhymes and reason, and seasons. And, the images get so vivid that they flow onto everything I touch. Am I an artist? For as long as the sky is blue in the morning’s light until the last leaf of the last tree fall on the ground.