The Artist

 The Artist

He told me he was a painter
I never gave it a thought
I pictured ladders and drop cloths
Gallons of paint being bought
Never ever did I envision
Canvas and palettes and brushes
Roses and oceans and fruit
Bushes that were so luscious

In awe, I sat there staring
Each canvas, one by one
One held a moon so soulful
Another captured the sun
He painted the mountains majestic  
The canyons and the plains
I don't know how he did it
But he even painted the rains

Each stroke was simply perfection
Each shade the perfect hue
Kneaded and blended in harmony
He even captured the dew
Oh no, he's not a painter
To say so would be absurd
Oh YES, the man's an artist
In every sense of the word.