Life would be a mistake,
the window says,

as if I need reminding.
Apparently, I need reminding.

And standing in Ching Young
Center in Hanalei, clouds ringing

the tops of mountains behind me
like moisture-laden lei, as I read

the golden-arched words, I think
of my painterly brother-in-law,

the retired art teacher, who most
days puts pen and ink or watercolor

to paper. Or the dear friend who hosts
musicians in concert at her home

in the hills. Or the tropical garden
where my fella and I are happily

ensconced, most every tree
wrapped in orchids blooming

their fool heads off, thanks to a
devoted, green-thumbed woman.

Life in any form is no mistake—
it is the art that surrounds us

if we have eyes to see it. It is
the art in us, if we have the will

to make it, the patience to play
with it, to not insist that it be

good, just done for now. Like
this poem, a bit of sloppy

wordplay that fell out of me
onto the page and—

no accident, this—
made its way to you.