A Blank Canvas

Somewhere in the mist of the early morning
I sense the warm sun flowing over my body
A soft breeze quietly slips across my face
Tender and precise as the master's paintbrush
Carefully painting color on to a blank canvas

Lightly he dips his paintbrush into the clay pot
Seeking color for the thought he just had
It comes to him and he applies it lightly
That stroke, ever so faint, a soft baby pink

A pink that traces the lines of my mouth
And makes my lips quiver with delight
He makes his way down to the hollow of my throat
And lets his paintbrush linger there

The soft tingling tip of the camel hair brush
Is almost more than I can endure
Stirrings from deep within course through my body
The feelings so real I can hard contain them

Suddenly I realize I am now fully awake
And breathless from this early morning play
The artist now sees his perfectly painted canvas
And finds his early morning work was not in vain