She sits at her easel,

Paints stain skin and

Clothing, tendrils escape

Her bun of hair, sticking

To the sun kissed face,

Raising her arm to wipe

Them away, sighing she

Lays aside her brush,

The scene before her

Fades, rather than trees

And sky, the face of her

Beloved dances on the 

Floor of memories past,

Beckoning her to join

Him, turning focus back

To her canvas, tear

Blurred eyes realize she

Had hidden parts of him,

Smile, eyes, in every

Scene as he was always

Nearby in all things, with

The sunset, she packs

Her supplies to walk

Home, placing the

Day's work in her attic

With all the others, 

A private museum show.

By Gail Constable

From: Canada

Instagram: witch_of_words1955