Paint me persuaded, in rich sunset hues,
Carve me converted, an artisan’s Muse;
Trace and embellish, etch and design,
No matter the media, my heart is Thine.
Master Linguist, conjugate
A metaphor on Nature’s slate,
String Your Words like diadems,
Loose Your lexiconic gems.
Idioms, Creation’s cloak,
(Accents for the simpler folk)
Speak in volumes , tell in prose,
In every dialect disclose
The glory of Your Living Word.
Among the wonders I have heard,
I hear Your discourse in the breeze,
Syntax in the whispering leaves;
Alphabets in Milky Way,
Grammar at each breaking day.
Master Linguist, breathe in me
Words that shape my prosody.
After You painted the sun in the sky,
Adding a rainbow and brilliant sunrise;
After You crafted the mountains and trees,
Sketching the lilies, the roses, the seas –
You left me a palette, with flowers for hues,
And gave me blank canvas and paintbrush to use…
Indian paintbrush grows wild here – it comes in many variations of pinks. This one is growing in the ditch near my yard – I don’t know its proper botanical name. It always reminds me that art is alive all around us in this gallery we call Earth…