He Painted My Picture

I set there for hours with my brush in hand,
To paint a picture, like from the beauty of the land.
The colors of my pallet I could not copy,
For their hues I could not compare.
To my master who was like instructing,
Like when I was sitting there.
I tried to capture the landscape with all of its hills and rocks,
But no matter what color I had used I found that I could not.

From the canvas that I had now was no longer bare,
For all that I needed to paint was of me sitting there.
In an instant I had found my picture was complete,
I saw my whole self right down to my feet.
I stood to look at my picture with me sitting there,
I even had the right color to my graying hair.
I had wondered how I had did it and I wanted to excitingly scream.
Until I now realized that it was my reflection in that gentle flowing stream.

I looked back at my canvas,
That was dry and still bare.
And I wondered what I had painted,
Like when I was sitting there.
My pallet still had color,
This was dabbled with lots of mixtures.
For it was not I who was the artist,
It was he who painted my picture.