Upon the canvas I saw her grace, The fluid lines and flowing lace, Her colors bold with a tint of gold, And tales her brush had often told.
Her heart and soul did fill the frame, A masterpiece, and yet the same, I longed to find a faded flaw, A hint of imperfection raw.
For I could not bear the thought, That in the beauty she had wrought, She had found no blemish kind, To keep her art from being blind.
So I searched and searched again, Hoping for some hidden stain, To take away the perfect play, And let her passion have its way.
But alas, no flaw could I find, And my heart grew faint and blind, For in her art she had painted true, A flawless beauty to renew.
So to myself I had to say, That her hand held no mistake that day, And the fault lay within my eyes, For seeing only imperfections and lies.
For her art was perfect in its way, A reflection of a bright sunny day, And in her brush strokes I could find, A perfect love that was always kind.
