The painter can stroke the sunlit ocean,
The inventor can breathe his machine to motion,
The physician can mend the pulsing wound,
The fiddler can saw what children croon,
The investor can gauge the incipient trend,
The warrior’s courage, the author can pen.
Of all of these, who
Can make anything new?

We each like a camera can clutch what we’ve seen
With toil and perspective can cast it on screen.
Our lens prods a penchant to modify,
To augment, enhance, and to amplify,
Endowed with the license to mark on each frame
Yet sweet as perfume comes the fragrance of fame.
We’re made to reflect
But we feign to project.

In time we’re inclined to hallucinate
That what we convert is what we create.
No threat to God’s purpose, it cannot be bent—
He rendered us free not to ask His consent.
For whether by way of the humble ant’s grasp
Or else by the careless traverse of the asp
T’will all end the same
His glory proclaimed.

© Tanner Rinke 2012