The painting blesses me through the night.  It knows me.  It doesn’t say much but it breathes everything.

I rest on my back … feeling the sky.  The arms are limp, the hands open.  The fingers are unfurled, revealing a palm that welcomes everything.  All the “good” stuff and all the “bad”.  Please come here, precious life.

I am buoyed up from below.  So many hands from all my years are lifting me.  I am asked to see the vista that is given.

The yellow shines through.  It brightens my bones and invites my skin to glow.  Every fiber of Bruce is massaged by an artist’s loving hands.

There is nothing to do in this world of night.  In my sighing I breathe in and out through the wee hours.  And then I’m greeted by the first light of morning.