Her Brush With Death

frosty foliage


The frost that ruptures arteries

and makes her foliage weep

is also master of the brush

that earns true glory’s keep,

for as he paints the crimson tide

with blood as palette’s edge,

his lines mark beauty’s truest form,

and trace salvation’s ledge.



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…


How did you whisk sunshine from skies up above

And add it to petals, to burst with its rays?

When did you clamber down into the mine-shaft

In order to add liquid gold to your gaze?

Why did you feel you could steal golden paintbrush

From canvases brilliantly hung in the Louvre?

Where did you learn how to strut with such confidence,

Knowing your beauty has nothing to prove?