As I look at nature, a deep love develops in my mind and heart for it.  Oh, it's beauty cannot be told.  I like to lay under the trees,  I will linger till night falls, and I lay there looking up at a starry sky.  I wonder about the artist, with the giant strokes painting a magnificent work of art.  I see the strokes of nature, and I marvel at it all.     Like any other masterpiece, 

Aw!  What a grand artist, he must be!  He is the grandest, I know it because I see in every stroke, his majesty. I look and gaze for hours, at his creating watching and loving strokes of each and every day,  and of every living thing, I see the beauty of his brush.

Like most artists, I imagine not all of his work is done.  I'm sure in his grand studio there are the good pieces, the not so good, and maybe downright bad to gaze upon.  There are some work that is new and some work that is old, but he looks at every piece as having been stroked by him.          

On the work that is yet not finished,  now that is the masterpiece in progress.   It is loved just like all the rest, because in his eyes, he visions the finish work. And that picture doesn't have to be a masterpiece yet, to be loved.

I wonder if the artist has any children.  Do they want to be like their father?  Do they sit and watch him stroke his brush across the canvas?  Do they see him mix the colors till he gets the right shades, tints, and hues?

And do they not wish to be just like the father, to learn to stroke just like  him.  To create their own masterpieces.  I guess that nothing would make him more proud than if they were artists just like him, working on a "moving work of art".