She paints sunlit scenes in the fields all around her.
Sunlight on leaves never fails to astound her.
He can't understand her delight in the stones
She finds in the stream where they mock all the clones

Who say the same things and wear the same clothes,
Always confined by the style of their pose.
Each stone is unique. They speak to her soul,
Reciting their lines in a well-written role

That's part of life's play. She loves their performance.
She senses the romance they feel in a storm dance
When they remain still while the grass, flowers and trees
Keep dancing for hours to the beat of the breeze

She loves hearing moths at the window at night,
Tapping the glass to get in to the light.
She'd listen for hours to the moths' soothing noise.
She thinks that they're ghosts of deceased butterflies,

And that bees are just flies wearing dreamcoats to dream,
Lazily buzzing through life's gentle stream.
Dream-filled stream water speaks shimmering prose.
It trickles and tickles the rocks as they doze.

He thinks that a lot of her theories are flawed.
Despite his misgivings he'll gladly applaud
All her ideas and her warm works of art,
And all the expressions of her sun-filled heart.

He smiles when she talks to her neighbour's two beagles.
He once knew a woman who painted dead seagulls.
He was surprised when he found out this fact.
He said it was odd. He tried to use tact.

But she was quite right in responding like this:
"In painting dead seagulls there's nothing amiss.
If I painted live ones they surely would die,
Just like in an oil slick. They'd struggle to fly."