The art gallery is quiet, but not silent;
beautiful, but not perfect;
reverent, but not sacred.
The artists’ thoughts hang in the air,
so thick inside my lungs and hands
I could reach out and take them.
Art must be the stuff of dreams,
or so, to me, it seems.
If I breathe too loudly,
the paintings will fly off the walls
and scatter leaf-like on the floor.
I feel an artist’s eyes on my back
as I take a last look around
and walk carefully out the door.
For years and years art has been,
at least from me, kept hidden.