My Father Sees

My father has incredible eyes.

He sees what I cannot see.
He sees inside me, inside my heart.
Finding treasures I have yet to discover,
or black secrets hidden purposely,
to which I’ve turned
a blind eye.

Nothing escapes Him.
He sees everything. 
Beginning to end, broad stroke and detail,
an artist knowing the masterpiece
while it is but a thought, a sketch.
I search His disarrayed palette
intently,
hoping for clues.

The palette does not seem much
with which to work.
Vibrant colors gone, tainted, blended,
turned to mud, smeared by complements.
I ask, “What can come of them?”
He continues to mix.
“Patience,” He whispers,
to all I ask.

Now and then, He allows a peek.
He turns the canvas, shares his vision.
For a moment, fleeting understanding approaches.
Ah, yes, sense to the mixing of colors.
The instance passes, turns back
to His eyes only.
I am myself again, bewildered
Safely trusting His ability.

He tells me one day
it will be finished.
I’ll grow up.
No longer fixated on the palette,
but the splendor of the canvas itself
I’ll see what he has been mixing.
I’ll rejoice
in His finished work.