Painting

On the fourth day he decided

To follow her.

The past three days he

Had watched her slip away

From Painters at Painters,

To the south side of the lodge

And dip into the bushes,

Easel under her arm.

Too beautiful, he mused,

To be painting rather than

Painted,

A few short steps through

The trees and he was on

A dusty country lane

And a sign that read

Hudson Farms.

He was amazed at this picture

Book picture of a farm

On the edge of the ocean,

Wooden fences, horses, he

Wondered how many more pretty

Sites might this little town that

Called itself a city reveal.

There she was at her easel,

She heard him, turned, then

Went back to her painting.

It’s almost done, come take

A look, she invited.

There on her canvas nearly

Perfectly painted was the sight

He saw stepping out of the bushes,.

Almost complete except for

A small spot near the trees.

What is that, he asked.

She smiled, some things happen

After an artist’s conception,

Some things must happen before.

She put down her brushes

And beckoning, walked slowly

Backwards to the trees.

Stephen Nesbitt ©