Snow Camping
The beauty of white snow silently dropping.
Blanketing the forrest while no one is watching.
Morning awakens, breath hangs in the air.
Evergreens are bowing as if in prayer.
A coffee mug thaws hands aching in pain.
Cradling comfort in my wilderness of stain.
My simple shelter erased by white snow.
The world here moving at a slowed tempo.
Alone in the woods, a strange place to meet.
No reception to enable a tweet.
Without foot prints in snow he did arrive.
My heart protesting I may not survive.
Interrupted by the uncorrupted.
And wide eyed busted by the one trusted.
Does a sculptor carve with none to purchase?
Or an artist paint without a purpose?
A musician will play to empty seats.
The same as athletes who just must compete.
A code is written in the DNA.
Convincing and compelling to obey.
So the painter paints and writer writes.
The absence of an audience highlights.
There is glory and purpose in being.
Beauty and wonder in clearly seeing.
That we are made in another’s image.
Bearing his own likeness a privilege.
Being who we were created to be.
New each morn with originality.
So God paints beauty where none is watching.
Not to perform, our ego mocking.
But because a creator must create.
In places near and far to punctuate.
We are not the cause though we do witness.
Not the center, our soul sickness.
A million paintings before I arrived.
And a million more long after I’ve died.
The sun is setting with growing shadows.
The performance ending, the curtains close.
Laying down in a tent I close my eyes.
Slowly burried in snow i recognize.
That I’ve been with the painter, and he continues to paint.
Copyright © John Grindle | Year Posted 2020
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