God was free after matins

so he left his watch
on the dresser (it had stopped
a long time ago anyway)
took his paints and canvas
and went to his favorite
place to just be
He sat on the guardrail
facing the wide
expanse of the reservoir
a straw Stetson atop his head
his easel straddling
the road’s and the pond’s edge
his denim longsleeve
clothing its wooden arms
releasing his shoulder
so he could give it
to the desires of his brushes
He had returned
to finish what he
had already begun
A canvas muddied
with dull greens
and pale blue
waiting for the deeper
watery blue and black
rippled with white sunshine
Shadows of geese
and ducks at midmorning
Bright lime dappling
leaves, thick with June rain
Brief clouds scudding slowly
across a day eternal
He’s never been satisfied
to finish a painting
At most he can only
allow the paint to dry

(I borrowed this poem style from Cynthia Rylant, in her book God Went to Beauty School.)