My Painting

Richard Jones

are dancing, celebrating
the true eternal life
to come. In the bottom left,
in a purple house, my mother and father
are lying on long wooden tables,
peacefully, surrounded by the glory
of pink geraniums blooming
in heavy clay pots.
When Jesus and I fly past,
the flowered curtains flutter
and the children look up.
Jesus waves good-bye, then
points the plane heavenward,
his eyes raised toward the stars above
the painting. I look
back down at the half-finished earth,
at the children and the cows and the house.
There are some last touches I'd like to make,
a little more color, a lake perhaps
with silvery fish leaping
over nets in the water like rainbows.
But Jesus, his eyes on heaven,
doesn't look back, and the plane
is climbing, faster and faster,
and I realize now
he won't turn back
even if I
tried to explain
that I'm not finished with my painting
and my painting is not finished with me.