art

this morning strolling

through balboa park,

past the fountain

where my children

splashed in summer

heat in summer visits

to baba

down the road

from the ficus i'd

climb with kim and

jimmy, the ficus that

offered shade and

stumps to sit where

i hid with pen and

paper and my first

attempts at verse

across from the theatre

where I first stood

on stage all makeuped

under blinding lights

breaking legs and

swimming with butterflies

this morning strolling

i see a sign that reads,

artists at work

with an arrow pointing

north toward spanish

village with its multi-

colored uneven tiles

ceramic studios and

jewelers pounding silver,

painters outside catching

just the right light, and

from somewhere the

distinct unmistakable

aroma of glass blowing

i walk into a shop that

shines with flying shards

of silver and see a woman,

a few decades my senior,

wearing goggles,

grinding metal

i yell a question over

the noise and she puts

her hand to her ear, says

she's hard of hearing

i apologize for stealing

her away  and she says,

it's so tedious sometimes

and i ask her what it's

like to be a jeweler and

where she learned her

craft, what inspires her and

why silver?

she leans her head

into her tired hands

and tells me about

raising her son and

being the only woman

in her metal program

sixty years ago, and

she talks about patience

and church and how

working with silver

is a kind of prayer

she hands me the

ring she's been

working on, a gift

and it slides right on

my pointer finger,

braided silver, perfect

fit