As canvas runs with melting snow,
Winter slinks to earth below;
evaporating paint expires
when Springtime stirs with warmer fires.
How did you whisk sunshine from skies up above
And add it to petals, to burst with its rays?
When did you clamber down into the mine-shaft
In order to add liquid gold to your gaze?
Why did you feel you could steal golden paintbrush
From canvases brilliantly hung in the Louvre?
Where did you learn how to strut with such confidence,
Knowing your beauty has nothing to prove?