Looking back on years of caring, 
Seeing how they end: 
Struggling, with you to be friends. 
Feels like we’re in an exhibition – 
Paintings on a wall — watching past impressions fall. 

Stillness in your eyes when you’re thinkin’ 
Questions wrinklin’ your pretty nose, 
Find me wondering just whose’ on your mind— 
Is Claude Monet or Michelangelo ? 

All Those Quirky Little Things 
Still endear you to me. 
So strong, now I know they’re gone. 

Now that gallery is empty, 
Everyone’s gone home. 
The artist’s work hangs all alone. 
It this why she made the effort-- 
To create a show? Or has she 
Nothing else to sow. 

Visions of love and truth and beauty— 
Sketches lost with out discarded sheets, 
Still I can find your blossom opening 
In the still-lifes of O’Keefe.