With a wash, a milky sky,
she is wide awake and at the canvas.

Swallowing an olive or
sipping seawater soup
she's chuckling away 
the hours that pass. 

It's a brightening morning-
she must attempt a blue more intense.
Ultramarine, titanium white?
More, less? One thing for sure -
not everyone can be Rembrandt.

High noon and gold is fierce
as her brush now primed: 
blinding mirror, glinting insect,
shining forehead, chuckling again.

After her Burgundy wine the wind is 
visible in the trees. She'd capture it 
baton-twirling her green brush
eyes closed, chuckling, naturally.

Closer conspiritors now- 
the light and the shade
rise on billowing salmon and flamingo
clouds possible to believe in
through her touch of genius.

At last light sails away 
all of a sudden so quick
she switches to night vision.