An Echoed Voice

How can I sit at your knee, watching

since I am part of the blank canvas you shaped?

Your hands are birds flying

across this paleness, filling it with scrawny sticks

Twigs that change, grow, multiply

into verdant forests of cerebral thought

On the image remove one tree

to make room for immense multi-hued landscapes

As one field replaces another, they transform from concrete

to timber and the wings of your hands now fly swiftly

New colors flow from your limbs

filtered sun sifts through clouds onto golden fields

More work must be done before your wings can rest

here and there are empty spots where trees or creatures appear

All conception becomes a Word

and in its creation, an overflowing canvas chimes

We, my artist, are your voice and ears

the sound of how you created us from emptiness

It all comes back to you because of giving to us first

we are your word chimes, an echoing of Your voice