What joy, those wintery fields
where wheat will green the ground
in spring, where corn
will lift its ears to catch the wind
and soy beans will wait
for harvest moon to ripen,
But now, half-frozen furrows
blankly bide their time,
Empty beneath an arching sky
and one old spreading tree,
gnarled and kingly
in its freshly frosted dominion.
It sets the mind to wondering
at God’s artistry, what was he thinking?
Of contrast and of symmetry?
Of hues and tints that swirl
and blend, or did his canvas
bloom with pure necessity?
When he nourished wheat,
did he smell bread? Those
luscious loaves brown and steaming
from the oven, did he plan the hearth
prior to the seed, or did his creation
mother his invention.
How blank his canvas must have been
with nothing but the sky, the ocean,
and the empty fields, Perhaps it was
a sunny day, the sky a bright
cerulean, Perhaps he stood back
pondering the possibilities…
A splash of emerald green
for contrast, a hint of olive
for the shadow, did he apply the color
straight from the tube? From
titanium to burnt umber, not waiting
for it to dry?
How deftly he created leaves, perhaps
to satisfy the need for shade ? Was there
a manual spelling out the elemental order
of the final? Requirements of competency
with color and texture. A familiarity
with geometric design?
Or did he fill each spot with something
needed … Choose his colors somewhat
randomly, The picture once completed
was a harmony of elements that fulfilled
each other’s needs, The bread the art,
The art the seed.