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Easel of Day

I woke up this morning to the whispering wind.

Perhaps it was really must have been.

I crawled from my bed, made myself some tea,

And crept out to watch the Painter create a masterpiece.

He touched the brush to the lake and the sky started to wake

Like the herald of trumpets as silent artistry makes.

Some finches flew in morning array

Leaving bits of yellow on the canvas of day.

A touch to the lake, then back to the sky

Leaving ripples of color as His brush passes by.

A little more yellow, cardinal red,

I am ever so thankful I'm not in my bed.

A moment of silence as an eagle soars high

To announce the dawn with a piercing cry.

And there - - the sun!

Reflecting the very gold of the throne

As the Painter leaves the signature that is uniquely His own.


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