An artist stands high on a cliff.
The rapids clash and churn and break
On the shards beneath his feet.
The howling falls bring out
An endless, flowing river of change and water.
The artist tries with all his might to capture the gleam
Of every drop, and the particular visage
Of the rocky basin weathered below.
The pace of his brush has no hope of matching
The rate of his bent,
Just as his artist’s eye cannot hope to capture
The animalistic nature of the savage, rushing waters,
And their ever-changing form.
This one image he pours mind and body into,
Holds infinite bounds of wonders within an array of
The sun, burning eternally over his head,
Gives every droplet, every rock, every frame
A new shine, never seen before,
And never to be seen again.
The artist’s job is to capture the breathtaking power
That every ghosting instant holds,
And put it on the canvas, with the equal power of his brush.
But he is not alone in the impossible task.
Others have made the climb to these heights of imagination,
Others have found their brush and canvas,
And learned them to see every instant for what they are.
All sorts of men have climbed to their perch,
Armed with the pencil, the pen, the stylus, the sword.
All have equal power to find the gleam of ingenuity.
All have the artist inside them.
It is only a matter of finding their brush.