'The Artist' by Dave Scribbler

I knew not how she had gathered
This most joyous day of Spring
Nor how her brush seemed guided
Like the leaves that drift in the wind.

So I sat and watched my lady
Who painted people's dreams
Then fell asleep beneath the bough
Of and old established tree.

That day I dreamt of a valley
That was ripe with emerald green
Where orchids white and wonderful
Laid windswept paths to seas.

I walked upon a new land
Where the air was fresh to breathe
And I had sown my seeds with extravagance
In this valley of my dreams.

Though locked in foolish wonder
My head stayed bowed in shame
For I had seen the valley green
That was there before I came.

When woken by the sounds
Of nearby cars and trains
My valley turned to teardrops
And my artist turned to rain.

Copyright owned by Dave Scribbler, July 2017