The Master s Canvas

God holds a palette of all hues,
His canvas—the sky’s vast light.
A Master who has naught to lose,
His brushstrokes swift and bright.

He spreads the watercolors thin
Beyond the horizon's line,
Touching the grey where clouds have been
With green, red, and yellow shine.

Upon the blue, washed clean and fair
By rains that have just gone by,
He lets the sunbeams dance and flare,
Though rainbows only own the day sky.

But when the night turns black and deep,
He paints in purest white.
Stars emerge from their silent sleep,
Like tracers through the night.

He draws the Milky Way’s soft glow,
Galaxies in grand design.
It’s simple, steady, in his flow,
A phlegmatic practitioner, divine.

But that is when the air is clear,
With no dirty blots in sight.
If messy clouds should then appear,
To ruin the mood of light—

He trades the brush for lashes then,
And whips the canvas raw,
Drawing jagged lines again,
Defying every law.

The sky is streaked with crooked white,
Like madness in the air.
He crushes chalk with all his might,
And zigzags everywhere!

Until the fever breaks its hold,
He uses every grain.
And when he’s tired, or feeling old,
He breathes in thunder’s strain.

The colors from the heavens flow,
In flowers they take root.
To be a God is great, you know!
An artist knows the truth.

To be a God is great, you know!
An artist knows the truth.