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A woman picks up her paints and brushes after decades, and realises that her passion never died, she is still equally good at her art!
Only if life had been a bed of roses,
Or a simple walk in the park.
With a supporting hand, a strong pillar,
Who would always have her back.
A doctor, an engineer, or a teacher,
Or master of her art.
Her creative persona shining through,
In competitions she took part.
Her fingers worked magic,
Works lifelike, leaping out from their frames,
Colours, paints, needles and threads; her constant companions,
Where she always won the game.
Many marvelled at her creations,
Others encouraged and offered words of praise.
She continues on her creative streak,
Sometimes she wondered, will this last in the coming days?
Time caught up, she was now a woman,
No longer the girl with her own free rein.
Supplies and creations, passion and perseverance pushed to the back burners,
“Why do you have to continue your passion?” “What is there to gain?”
So there they lay, all those years,
Gathering dust, waiting patiently for her touch.
And here she toiled, tirelessly to fill
Her family’s appetite, she couldn’t do much.
Hopes, aspirations and dreams, all remained, locked up in the depths of her heart,
Time ticked on, she lost track of that,
Strands of white in her hair, slight wrinkles showing on her face, she was free now!
Sometimes she wondered, what shall I do? I have time on my hand!
Doubtful yet determined, “Why not pick up my brushes again, make a few strokes here and there?”
Her fingers still worked magic, she had not forgotten them after all!
What she couldn’t do then, she could now,
And sometimes she wondered, could she finally rise after her fall?
Picture Credits: Photo by Yaroslav Shuraev from Pexels
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