The Hand of God

THE HAND OF GOD
(For my art teacher,
Terry O'Connor)
September 14, 2006

I saw the colors cobalt, and
alizarin, and taupe.
Each was on a palette in
its designated spot.
I watched the hand of God, Himself,
apply them to the board,
and when He finished daubing,
each were all in one accord.

He took the dark of umber
and the red of sienna too
and mixed them both and shaped
them beneath the band of blue
until they formed a mountain
that spanned across the scene
with forest trees whose canopies
were bobbing dabs of green.

With a simple sweep of elbow
and a flick of His great wrist,
a path, a roof, a hamlet
escaped his daedal fist.
With just a touch of oil
and a bit of white for hue
the sun appeared in detail
off a single drop of dew.

A magic wand, his paint brush,
full of earth and wind and fire;
when waved the world sprung to life;
the stars shone brighter, higher.
One stroke had caused the sea
to breathe in undulating swells;
another bid the symphony to
play complete with bells

and strings and wild things that
pluck and strum the brain,
or sound like trumpets blowing
when there’s thunder in the rain.
I watched that wand and marvelled
at the wonder that it brought
and wondered if I’d learn it all
through lessons that he taught.

Could I, some day, command
the clouds and put life in a hock,
and dapple meadows full of shadows
chasing light on rock?
Could my work crackle like a flame
where colors melt on wood
like the slowly rising sun upon the
nooks of neighborhoods?

Now I watch him mix some withers,
a cannon bone, a tail
and place them on the canvas
where they’ll gallop down the trail.
How I hope that one day I will
glean the skill I need
from this accomplished man who can
turn a daub into a steed!