The Canvas

The blank canvas
	sits upon an easel - 
	at least it was blank one night - 
	for when I woke the next morning
	some splashes of color
	appeared in the corner.
There was no particular form,
	no apparent beauty,
	yet, there they were - 
		colors where once were none.
Each day since -
	each morning new - 
	colors migrated across
		the once white framed world.
	No brushes could be found
		nor color wheel
		nor palette.
	But unmistakably the colors grew.
	Day after day
		slowly covering,
			then adorning
				the canvas.
At first it was without form.
	Then later, emerging from the chaos,
	I thought I recognized something.
		A landscape -
			some mountains,
			trees,
			paths,
			clouds,
			rain,
			sunshine,
			deserts,
			springs,
			and more…
		every day changing,
			every day becoming,
				never finished,
					or so it seemed.
Last night I thought it done.
	With canvas nearly filled, 
	and edges nearly covered, 
	where else could it go.
	But then this morning -
		this very morning with bright light streaming through dirty panes
			and brown winter trees preparing for spring’s festive garment,
			this morning when muted green grass begins to change colors
			and the bright blue sky, unseen for months, is painted over the clouds -
		a larger canvas appeared.
Not a new canvas,
	as far as I know,
	but, then again, maybe it was.
	For the previous night’s painting - 
		in the size it was at dusk - 
		still covered the middle of the canvas,
		but in the dark of night the canvas had grown much larger.
The picture being painted - 
	the picture once filling the frame - 
	now a small piece of the larger canvas
		still held the same mountains and valleys,
		deserts and springs, 
		everything - 
			except,
				they weren’t the same at all.
	They were new,
		part of a larger world,
			going places
				the original framed work never revealed.

Tonight,
	yes, tonight,
		I go to bed tonight wondering where the colors will next go.
		I dream of the new world
			beyond the edges of the old
			the one I cannot yet see,
			but the one I now know
				is in the mind of the invisible artist
					and waiting to be painted by his unseen hand.