His Painted Poem
A poem, I suppose, unlike prose,
is laid upon the page like a painter’s brush.
First the outline shapes complete, background and foundation,
not too neat, but a promise of what is not complete.
And never static, not still life, but land and sea
and sky and earth, wind and wave, and dancing feet.
Some strokes are bold and to the fore.
Others link, not less, not more, but each essential,
as with lace, lest holes appear to spoil the trace.
We are God’s workmanship, His painted poem,
composed, and when complete, fine-framed
in His own likeness. To be like Him,
perfect, pure, refined, unstained.
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