The Soft Painted Lady

I miss that soft painted lady, 

With the storybook who would try to make me smile. 

The words she wrote were only hers 

and she went away after a while, 

It's known that she has a temper 

especially in the mitts of a freezing December, 

the winter trees sway as the people's breath turns white.

 It's the last time we'll see the painted lady tonight. 

I reminisce about her presence in delight

She wore a silk robe with her hair uptight, 

the thought of Everwood keeping her up at night. 

Spring came swift as the tides made haste,

the smell of flowers and cotton the morning embraced.

The stem of a willow grows, long and thin,  

so fragile in the morning as it blows through the wind. 

A woman walks over and gives the willow a pick

Counts the petals and even the wick

The painted lady came out more in spring, 

she always seemed happier when she laid over by the Everwood tree.