Every morning when I wake up, I drink coffee and open my journal and look out the bay window into our front yard. The first sentence I write is always and never the same.
I can hear the whistle and twitter of birds.
I hear birds singing. Is that your voice?
Sun wide in its blaze on green trees.
Across the street, pink flowers bloom on a bush.
Today is today.
I cannot see them, but I hear them.
The monkey grass covers the whole walkway.
It's a wet, blue-lit morning.
A bird bathes in water, flapping and splashing about.
The sun showers light on leaves and blades of grass.
It's a new day, and it is seen.
A thin veil of clouds diffuses light perfectly.
The wind blows and the raindrops make a song.
You create these wonders and drop them by my doorstep each morning. How thankful I am to know the Painter of such varied scenes. Is it mundane, compelling the sun to rise? Are You tired of picking up the brush, filled with weather as paint? Day after day, choosing dark or light, deciding which blades need water and which need heat.
Is it painting or accounting?
Is it art or is it work?
Only the blades can know.
And only the blades know.