The Fourth Year

The fourth year is a dead, dry sea of shifting sands. Each week is a new staggering climb to crest a new mountain of sand, to be greeted again by another vicious valley and one more dead, dry sea of shifting sands.

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In this painting…

In this painting, lines of truth emanate. Light bursts forth, shattering a rigid picture, reaching beyond grasp, in bold strokes, defying a frame.

In its edged background, darkness seeps through. Something corrosive. Staining. But wherever the light reaches, there is darkness dispelled.

In its fierce foreground, a radiant star-burst flares forth from the form of a cross. At its center, a deep blue, shining, as arms and hands. They fly to the east and to the west, to the north and to the south, transforming from bright blue to blinding white.

Between these arms fly a thousand rays, reflecting their source, in hues of yellow and tinged orange. They warm instead of dazzle, and they draw the eye to their graceful metamorphosis from one strong arm to another.

In this painting, I see you. The artist I see in motions of creation, hovering over the surface, applying a foundation in broad, full strokes, and your hand, in dance, as you guide the light, and fill in the empty spaces. I see your moves in symphony and concert with love, shaping what will be, and exhausting care and consideration into a painting, radiating in the act of reflecting its maker.

In this painting is the source of which was said, “sunshine can be seen breaking forth from the frame, does strike my face, and warms again my heart to hope.”

In this picture…

In this picture is a bale of hay. Another, smaller, lies to its right, some ways away. Dead grasses lie before it. The brown specks of Autumn lie behind. The waning sun shines upon it all and grants the place life and being…

In this picture is a bale of hay. Another, smaller, lies to its right, some ways away. Dead grasses lie before it. The brown specks of Autumn lie behind. The waning sun shines upon it all and grants this place life and being. A shadow is cast from this bale but it can not reach the fence on which you sit nor darken the thing I seek. The sun sets and Fall approaches, and it will endure many years.

Without this picture is another. It is cold, lifeless. The dead winter.

But there is no other picture, and, in this, is why sunshine can be seen breaking forth from the frame, does strike my face, and warms again my heart to hope.