SHANGYUAN MUSEUM

First time here, but nothing seems mysterious.

I’m the mystery. In my strange imagination,

Shangyuan Art Colony rises from its valley,

floating like a concept.

Three cats, five dogs,

artists by the dozen, sunflowers, pumpkin vines,

everywhere what’s ordinary

speaks quiet creativity,

each different, each the same.

Some paint or sculpt,

some are poets.

Enclosing the possible kills it.

People here tend toward silence

or clamor, a key word alcohol.

You skip binge drinking

at a cost. Crossing the wall

to tend crops, or grappling

with unfinished work,

all these artists are illiquid,

their friendships neither desperate

nor egoistic. Nothing mystical, guests

and workers, courteous or secret.

Rainy mornings, strolling alone in the courtyard,

one may spot wildflowers

still unwithered—signs

left by visitors, they may be copied.

What’s made in humility can become divine.