Paint Her
There stands the painter upon his hill
His wife is gone but not his skill
On each and every rainy day
He hunkers down for an outdoor stay
A woodpile serves him as his chair
From which he casts his longing stare
Slowly the brush does touch the paint
As he pictures his departed saint
Quickening strokes all each knowing
His eyes now closed the paint a flowing
The colors before him come to life
The strokes reveal his teary wife
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