FINDING THE ART

The man mows his lawn
In perfect rows,
Then trims the edges
With a sculptor’s eye,

His work of art
A departure from the days
He spends
Managing numbers,
Filling spread sheets,
Twirling a pencil
Behind an oaken desk,

He stops to admire his work,
Taking time to breathe
In the fresh spring air,
To hear a pair of cardinals
Discuss the birdhouse in the yard,

It’s not so hard,
He thought,
To free the mind and find the art
In a perfectly sculpted lawn,

Yet even in a spread sheet
There is an art
To the lines and lists,

An art
That DaVinci himself
would have loved.

The picture is a page from DaVinci’s notebook.