The old man hunched at his easel,
squinting into the autumn sun.
He focussed hard on the branches
drooping low over the water.
Shifting his glance to the canvas,
he swirled his brush in the lime green
and lifted it toward a spot
where a willow had begun to sprout.
But the canvas was just a blur.
No trees, no water, no lilies.
Here a thin streak; there a thick glob.
He saw paint, but not Giverny.
The old man laid the brush aside
and stepped back two paces. He looked
at the canvas as if he'd just
come upon it during a stroll.
After twenty minutes' study,
the old man began to see what
he'd made. His brain stopped seeking
perspective. His painting was flat.
His brain stopped looking for balance.
His painting was raw. His brain stopped
asking for meaning. His painting
was too new to mean anything.
For the second time in his life,
the canvas before him proclaimed
a new way of seeing God's world.
With gratitude and joy, he sobbed.