Bill Moore

Fingertips drawn to dust    
Hands stained by the blood of rocks      
With his gentle brush      
And strokes that changed      
To the sun’s mood      
Just colorless orphans      
Of forgotten earth      
Until he came        
With all the colors of grace      
Alive in  the death of the desert      
With a  soul ordained      
For the artist        
For the painter  
For the priest