Eighty
years ago, an old lady now
Sitting
on the front porch, watching the clouds roll by
They
remind her of her lover, how he left her
And
of times long ago when she used color carelessly
Painted
his portrait a thousand times -
Or
maybe just his smile
Her
and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go
Because
they were painters
And
they were painting themselves a lovely world
Oil-streaked
daisies covered the living room walls
He
put water-colored roses in her hair
He
said, 'Love, I love you
I
want to give you the mountains, the sunshine, the sunset too
I
just want to give you a world as beautiful as you are to me
Because
I'm a painter
and
I want to paint you a lovely world'
So
they sat down and made a drawing of their love
They
made it an art to live by
They
painted every passion, every home
Created
every beautiful child
In
the winter they were weavers of warmth
In
summer they were carpenters of love
They
thought blueprints were too sad so they made them yellow
Because
they were painters
And
they were painting themselves a lovely world
Until
one day when the rain fell as thick as black oil
And
in her heart she knew something was wrong
She
went running through the orchard screaming
'No
God, don't take him from me!'
And
by the time she got there, she feared he already had gone
She
got to where he lay, water-colored roses in his hands for her
She
threw them down screaming, 'Damn you man, don't leave me
With
nothing left behind but these cold paintings
These
cold portraits to remind me'
He
said, 'Love I only leave a little, try to understand
I
put my soul in this life we've created with these four hands
Love,
I leave, but only a little, this world holds me still
My
body may die now, but these paintings are real'
So
many seasons came and many seasons went
And
many times she saw her love's face watering the flowers
Talking
to the trees and singing to his children
And
when the wind blew, she knew he was listening
And,
oh, how he seemed to laugh along
And
how he seemed to hold her when she was crying
Because
they were painters
And
they had painted themselves a lovely world
Eighty
years ago, an old lady now
Sitting
on the front porch, watching the clouds roll by
They
remind her of her lover, how he left her
And
of times long ago when she used color carelessly
Painted
his portrait a thousand times -
Or
maybe just his smile
Her
and her canvas would follow him wherever they would go
Yes,
her and her canvas still follow
Because
they are painters
And
they are painting themselves a lovely
Yes,
they are painters
And
they are painting themselves a lovely world