When she was three, she was an artist.

She pulled out a crayon

And drew the whole world

With a purple sky and

A pink sun in the corner.

Moms and dads and sisters and brothers,

Geese and giraffes and rhinos and whales

Danced happily across the page.

Everybody smiled because everything was good,

And the picture was beautiful.

 

When she was twelve, she was an artist.

She sorted the colored pencils

And drew the whole world

With a blue sky and

A yellow sun streaming through the clouds.

Mountains and buildings and oceans and trees,

Kings and businessmen and architects and scientists

Left little room for a child,

So she ommitted herself from the drawing.

But the picture was beautiful.

 

When she was eighteen, she was an artist.

She sifted through her watercolors

And painted the whole world

With a pink sunrise to

Illuminate the beautiful new day.

India and China and Argentina and Latvia,

Cafes and villas and skyscrapers and bookstores

Beckoned her to explore and to

Become a part of it all.

And the painting was beautiful.

 

When she was thirty, she was an artist.

She grabbed her pallette knife

And painted the whole world

With smoggy skies and 

Mountains the color of hope.

Sadness and pain and fear and doubt,

Joy and strength and courage and love

Battled throughout the canvas

And she couldn't tell who was winning.

But the painting was beautiful.

 

When she was eighty, she was an artist.

She gently raised her pastels

And drew the whole world

With the sun setting after

A long and busy day.

Toddlers and mothers and grandmothers and daughters,

Florists and soldiers and kings and musicians

Sat together to watch the evening turn to night.

Everybody smiled because everything was good.

And the picture was beautiful.