Heavenly Art

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