She sits by the fire
easel set so she can easily look out the window to the tapestry of beauty
which she is painting.
Watercolors, expertly blended,
the details of the painting become soft, a less defined portrait of the
magnificent scene outside of her home by the sea.
She has been painting her landscapes for so many years now.
Each one holds a beauty,
a special inner beauty of the artist herself.
She is old now,
holding the brush
the strokes more difficult with the passing of years.
Her once auburn hair,
pulled back into a bun.
Knuckles swollen with pain
colored with age spots.
Dark bags under tired eyes,
watering with the strain of her work.
She should give it up,
but the joy of creation is something that is not just forgotten, nor put on a
shelf to gather dust.
She needs her painting.
Today, a landscape,
power of the sea as it crashes against large rocks bordering the lighthouse.
Icy foam quickly forming.
Dusk...the light at the top of the structure is slowly turning, a warning to
ships of the treacherous rocks submersed along the shoreline of the bay.
Each brush sits
within an old chipped cup of muddied water for cleaning.
Another, holding clean water,
awaiting the need to blend,
softening as added
giving subdued beauty to the painting.
endlessly searching for that long awaited meal.
Soft gray and white of the gulls,
nice contrasting color among the darkening clouds.
Glowing beacon of the old,
age worn lighthouse,
casting yellow-white hue,
permeating dense fog surrounding the bay and rocky formations.
One can almost hear the forlorn sound of the foghorn from within the painting.
She sips her tea,
from her antiquated, flowered cup,
given by her Great Grandmother so very long ago.
As she sips the warm,
she remembers the days gone by,
Children now grown,
husband of many wonderful years now gone.
Though her heart and soul, yet young,
her body ages,
too old to create the beauty
that once came from the brush strokes of younger days.
This will be the last,
her days are fast becoming nigh.
Her husband always sat in this spot,
watching the lighthouse.
He found its rare beauty mesmerizing.
The sound of waves crashing against rocks, the lonely call of gulls, golden
beauty of the light as it slowly turns, he loved this scene.
Yes, this painting,
was just for him.