Marvel with me, if you will,
that water never flows uphill,
that whiners know no dulcet tone,
and ants leave nary a cake alone;
that day follows night and night the day,
that parrots always have something to say,
that money’s scarce in holiday season,
and you love me still, despite all reason.
I stepped onto the broad parterre to make a painting en plein air,
but found, instead of gentle breeze, the air was cold enough to freeze;
instead of fresh and sunny scenes, a garden growing wilted greens;
I’d hoped to capture nature’s glory–saw, instead, an allegory
teaching me: the garden pales, the skies grow dim, and nature fails
and seems all doomed to soon be dead–so I just painted you instead,
and in your portrait, found that kind of natural joy I’d hoped to find.

