The canvas was blank, and she started working,
Staring intently, brushes now slow, now jerking,
Looking at the work with rapt dissatisfaction.
Her canvas took shape, brush and tint, careful action.
The brushes dropped slowly, as she settled. “Enough.”
“The work is adequate,” she said, “although rough,”
She never felt like it was pretty at all,
But she painted, winter, spring, summer and fall,
He saw her canvas, and fell, daily, in love,
He saw the beauty, without the make-up.