I woke up this morning to the whispering wind.
Perhaps it was God...it 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.