Ice Sculptures and Doilies

Is it that the performance
Requires no inspiration?
Is it that the craft itself

Is inherently numbing,
Constrained in variation?
Is it just too damn easy?

What is it that leaves a craft
Outside of the ring of art?
Maybe every tchotchke lurks,

Waiting for that weird genius
Who will make its genre sing.
But if you can churn them out,

They’re worthless. They must endure,
But only a few. Only
Rare and lasting turns precious.