Held

God is in the wrist
no, before the wrist
in that small electric yes
that happens before I move

I sit with paper like a woman with too many thoughts

He says nothing

Which is how I know it’s Him

Then—a line

It goes crooked on purpose

Leans into green

Like it’s remembering a forest

I’ve never seen but somehow miss

I try to fix it
He laughs in sunlight

Yellow breaks open
right through the middle of my doubt

Splits it clean, spills everywhere

He guides like that
Not neat
Not polite

Not asking if I’m ready just pushing light
through whatever part of me is still resisting being seen

My hand follows
like it’s been waiting its whole life to stop pretending it knows where it’s going —with one drop of color

I didn’t plan that reach
I didn’t plan anything

That’s the miracle

God is not in the finished piece

God is in the ruin of control

In the moment I let the brush wander and it doesn’t get lost

He was never waiting
at the end

He was in every mark
I almost didn’t make