Painters

Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds roll by
They remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of times long ago
When she used color carelessly painted his portrait
A thousand times—or maybe just his smile—
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever they would go

'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves a lovely world

Oil-streaked daisies covered the living-room walls
He put water-colored roses in her hair
He said, "Love, I love you, I want to give you the mountains, the sunshine, the sunset too
I just want to give you a world that's as beautiful as you are to me

'Cause I'm a painter I want to paint you a lovely world

So they sat down and made a drawing of their love, they made it an art to live by
They painted every, passion every home, created every beautiful child
In winter they were weavers of warmth, in summer they were carpenters of love
They thought blueprints were too sad so they made them yellow

They were painters and they had painted themselves a lovely world

Until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil
And in her heart she knew something was wrong
She went running through the orchard screaming
"No God, don't take him from me!"
But by the time she got there, she feared he already had gone

She got to where he lay, water-colored roses in his hands for her
She threw them down screaming, "Damn you man, don't leave me
With nothing left behind but these cold paintings, these cold portraits to remind me!"

He said, "Love I only leave a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little this world holds me still
My body may die now, but these paintings are real."

So many seasons came and many seasons went
And many times she saw her love's face watering the flowers
Talking to the trees and singing to his children
And when the wind blew, she knew he was listening
And how he seemed to laugh along, and how he seemed to hold her
When she was crying

'Cause they were painters and they had painted themselves a lovely world

Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds roll by, they remind her of her lover
How he left her and of times long ago, when she used to color carelessly
Painted his portrait a thousand times, or maybe just his smile
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever they would go

Yes, her and her canvas still follow
They are painters and they are painting themselves a lovely
They are painters and they are painting themselves a lovely world