What internal music played
As he drew his brush
Softly saturated
Across the Wait of White?
How did he slow the wind
And tease it
Lure it
Into the pale cerulean wash?
What power did he possess
To stop the Sun
To halt the spin
Of the world before him?
What fierce invisible nail did he use
To affix his Now
So long ago
To My Now?
There is quantum stillness
In the flow
In the ebb
Of this flat dimension.
There is distance unreachable
Behind his eye
Beneath his hand
Proffered to us.
There is a God-Wink presented
Intangible, firm
Solidly translucent
Within this window.
Who was this mortal Creator
With Birth-breath
Of colored magic
And patient soul?
This wall is a cathedral
To His cathedral
Through his honor
He honors us
With one note
Of his internal hymn.