portrait of the artist by an easel

First, blank.

With all the pure vision
of the glory self in mind
a far-off, luminous sight
Now, shrouded and mysterious
by an eternal, ephemeral cloud bank

Creation begins.

A singularity
A kiss
A brushstroke.

Then, with pure and tentative movements
You, slowly and deliberately
Pour Your colors deep into me

Every earthen fiber
and golden sunrise
I breathe in Your breath
still gasping
through
rough edges of
a stiller rougher canvas

Swift and risky
and always tender motion
is the dance of Your hand
upon me.

Sometimes harsh angles
Overlaid with softer curves
Soon,
a pattern, emerges,
Intricate and beautiful

and I imagine
in my mind's eye
Passer-bys pass You by
and, overlooking your shoulder,
Scrutinize the surface
and marvel at the making
critique the composition
and wonder at the source

while still You paint on.

the pattern, oft hidden from their eyes
as well as mine
unfolds in the rarest of times
and the cloud bank rolls its chaos away
but only too briefly
to reveal
in one breathtaking moment of clarity

that,
(like the angel trapped in marble)
we are ever-chiseled and ever-freed
by Love and Truth

and we are all works of art
in progress.