The Master Artist

The artist’s tray was loaded with colors, each pastel waiting for its turn. Hues of indigo blues were impatient; sparks of carmine seemed to burn. While English chrome colors lay in anticipation for the Master’s touch. Purple pastel pansies primped and posed proudly to ready for the scene. Each bright hue was waiting for its turn but chosen first was the yellow green. Winds blew lightly against the canvas and upon each color that he lay. It’s sound had a melodic lilt as the grass began to grow and sway. Color after color, each pastel stroke was more brilliant then the last. Cerulean blue skies lightly painted waited for a pearl-grey cloud To float above the lively meadow, yet no spring shower would be allowed. The artist was tired, yet he knew his meadow waited for him the next day. Morning soon came and his fervent fingers reached for the pastels that lay Undiscovered upon his bright palette as more hues waited for their chance. He painted a sapphire creek that moved snake-like up the canvas then down. The artist smiled wisely as he painted groves of trees with his Van Dyke brown. Afternoon came and pastel shades were glazed upon the clear flowing water The creek streamed over the violet stones painted on by the Master. He seemed to lose all sense of night and day as each hue told its own story. The colors flew from left to right and the meadow seemed to come alive Ruby hues were topped upon the phlox as the fragrant flowers did thrive. His hand would not finish until he had painted the bluebird at its song. The misty meadow was melodious with crickets that sang along. The artist looked upon his growing scene and he knew what it still needed But his hand was weary and the pastel scene would wait another day For colors that still lay brightly unused upon the Master Artist’s tray. The next morning he painted against the sky purple hills gently sun-kissed. Swiftly, his fingers worked with tactful tries as twisting trees seemed to tryst. Pastel colors floated upon the land as butterflies flew here and there. Sounds of songbirds were singing as his grand meadow seemed to nearly burst With every color and every hue the artist lovingly had dispersed. He had worked for several days until one night when he was nearly through, His hands clapped together in delight and the glowing pastel dust flew. Sparkling pastels flew into the night sky; the colors iridescent. Magenta Mars and pastel stars shone down on his nighttime creation The Master knew he was almost through and he was filled with great elation. His mighty creation seemed static, though, and he blew hard upon the dust Pastels swirled and all of his pastel world began to twirl with the gust. Stroking his beard, he then nodded and began toadd what had been missing-- Painting the flesh tones of two people and the apple they had wrested From the tree that he had painted last—for on the seventh day he rested.