My Painting

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.