My eternal calling is an artist,
And my life’s work goes mostly unnoticed.

Maybe you’ll spot ink on my fingertips
From my pen that carries songs from seasons,
Scratching words soon to be sound on my lips
Only to be heard by my reflections.

Or maybe you’ll see me from a distance
Hanging blossoms in a spring pink spectrum
Or whispering pain into existence  
When a freshly drilled steel screw burns my thumb.

Or maybe you’ll stumble upon a hint
In the grand theater where the ghosts lurk,
The phrase in the paint room by my handprint
Which reads, “This is incarnational work.”