What scene can’t she capture
with her pencil and art?
She draws green and azure,
the whole from the part.
Her heart is full, like the sun,
of light-beams and heat.
To her wood desk they come,
at her paper they meet.
Wildflowers, dandelions,
so real they’re edible.
Camomile, columbine,
sweet peas with tendrils.
Her pencils are graded,
different shades of black.
Water-colors slated,
mixed with curious knack.
There’s a place for her somewhere,
in art halls, museums.
Her favorite place is out there,
with trees and no-see-ums.
She holds a special place,
in my heart, in God’s will.
I love to see her face,
see her do these things still.
