The Artist

My Father had His paintbrush out
last evening while I slept.
I beheld His handiwork
this morning and I wept.
He used so very many colors,
one-at-a-time, each leaf;
for me to record every one,
would it not defy belief?!

He started in the highest boughs;
H is not finished yet.
Slowly...daily...constantly,
new subtleties they get.
So gradual...so stealthily...
they breathe and move and live;
all the while, entertainment
constantly, they give!

My Father and His palette--
seasons does He paint!
Above each compliment that be,
above each vain complaint
the colors, they continue,
the blessings mount and mount...
the glories of His handiwork,
impossible to count!

Impossible to count...especially Autumn in the Ozarks! Don't blink or you will miss part of it!
Enjoy His season changes wherever you are. It is worth the time!
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