I thought
the sky was painted with a brush
By some almighty Hand,
As though
the clouds which ‘cross the heavens rush
And shade the fruitful land
Were oily
pigments mixed in some clay jar
With some great stirring stick,
Then spread
upon the sapphire canvas far
And near, in places thick,
Where cumulus
like cotton dot the blue,
Or nimbus shed their tears;
In places
thin, where stratus, all one hue,
Are stretched like wat’ry
smears,
Or cirrus,
feather-like, are flicked on high
With strokes both swift and
sure.
And as upon
that canvas of the sky
Stretched taut with such azure
I gazed,
upon my soul there fell a hush,
A silent peace, because
I thought
the sky was painted with a brush
And realized—it was.
T. G. 4/9/22
