If His brush strokes are the green carpet of moss on an Irish rock,
the velvet blue of butterfly wings that caress a tree,
and the liquid peaches of an afternoon sky preparing to sleep
If they are the silver dew clinging to a spider's web,
the fat grays of building storm clouds,
and the black of a starless night when my voice calls
Then it is here,
in the midnight colors,
that I see His hand most.
When I am alone with the chafe of a lonely heart,
and the sores inside that no one can see,
then I remember how stark an artist's canvas is before the painting.
How white a page is before I write upon it.
And I am full of hope. Because perhaps I am a color yet placed,
a word yet read...
and I wonder at the beauty of life yet to come,
If this is how God paints.