The Artist's Brush

I swirl and I dip and I come up to a point

I flip with a flourish and precisely square a joint

A dap and I dabble, I get shaky near the edge

I form boundaries out of nothing, a barrier, a hedge

I am the artist’s brush

I am here at His command

There are times he must cover over my previous mistakes

Where I’ve rushed out on my own or pushed against what he creates

Even though His hand is steady I can spring a random splatter

I’ve been greedy grabbing too much paint when He dips me in the platter

I cascade and pirouette, I sink a thickened line

I glisten or I dry up like fruit fallen from vine

I swoop and I tornado and I smooth back down again

I plant a tiny spot of brightness at the back of a dark den

I am the artist’s brush

I am here at His command

Whatever idea He might conceive

I trust His judgments, I believe

I will spread like watercolor or, if He decides, an oily grease

Knowing all the while I’m part of His great masterpiece!

By Royce Waxenfelter

10.30.23