Paint the Sky
By Richard Moss MD
September 30, 2024
I go to temple, and read the prayer,
I see you there, so precious and rare.
I’m living my own song of Solomon,
I was happy to be your adoring son.
Get me my brushes, son, get me my paint.
Why Mom, I asked, for she was my saint.
Just get them my son, and I will fly,
To the heavens above, so I can paint the sky.
Yes, Mom, I said,
With a spirit not faint.
I’ll soon find your brushes
And your paints
I looked under the benches,
It was urgent, I knew.
Behind the bushes,
By the rocks, I threw.
How could she do it,
I wondered aloud.
Could she soar so high,
To touch the cloud.
Get me my brushes, son, get me my paint.
Why Mom, I asked, for she was my saint.
Just get them my son, and I will fly,
To the heavens above, so, I can paint the sky.
I was only five,
When she commanded me as such.
I would do it for my mother,
It was not asking too much.
How could she do it?
I wondered aloud.
For a child like me,
I would be so proud.
I looked by the swings,
The see-saw and the rocks.
I looked by the trees,
I looked in my socks.
I was on a mission,
A child for his mother.
She raised my brothers and me,
Fatherless, there was no other.
Get me my brushes, son, get me my paint.
Why Mom, I asked, for she was my saint.
Just get them my son, and I will fly,
To the heavens above, so, I can paint the sky.
I adored her like a queen,
She cared for us and kept us clean.
There were five boys that she dutifully raised,
To her we happily swore all praise.
She dressed and fed us,
And helped us to see.
The wonders of nature,
From the Deity.
I was her young prince,
She was my queen.
I would defend and guard her,
From those who made a scene.
She taught us the bible,
And read the prayers.
She lit the candles,
In the kitchen and downstairs.
Get me my brushes, son, get me my paint.
Why Mom, I asked, for she was my saint.
Just get them my son, and I will fly,
To the heavens above, so, I can paint the sky.
She taught us to believe,
And never to doubt.
To have faith in the Creator,
Inside and out.
I looked and looked for her brushes and paints,
Hurry, hurry, so she may ascend with the saints,
The sun was setting and red was the sky.
Painting heaven with God, I would never deny.
She laughed at her boy,
Still looking around.
Mom, the sun is setting,
It is crimson and round.
There is no time,
The clouds are on fire.
You must help God
To paint, the moment is dire.
Come here, my son,
She said with a smile.
She held my hand and hugged me,
And we walked a mile.
We’ll paint the sky another day,
My son, but we can pray.
At the wonder of nature,
And the God we obey.
Get me my brushes, son, get me my paint.
Why Mom, I asked, for she was my saint.
Just get them my son, and I will fly,
To the heavens above, so, I can paint the sky.