A drop of ink falls from the sky,
drip, drip, drip on the page it lies.
Its siblings follow, forming a line,
a rythmic pattern kept in time.
A shape is formed; a crescent, an arc,
a gentle circle, two lovely dots.
drip by drip, she comes to life,
slowly, the drips slow down, and stop.
A shade is made, a gleam to match,
edits made by hand.
For such beauty of hers could never last
but made from love so pure.
She comes alive, smiling at me,
and paints a red tint for two.
Her beauty is stunning, none can compare
except, for her painting's muse.
