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

And she and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go

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

world

Oil streaked daisies covered the living room wall

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 as beautiful as you are to me

'Cause they were painters, and they had painting themselves, 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 the winter they were weavers of warmth, in the summer they were

carpenters of love

They thought blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow

'Cause they were painters, and they had painting 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, but only a little, try to understand

I put my soul in this life we've 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 so 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, an how he seemed to hold her when

she was crying

'Cause they were painters, and they had painting 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 color carelessly, painted his

portrait

A thousand times - or maybe just his smile -

And she and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go

Yes, she and her canvas still follow

'Cause they were painters, and they had painting themselves, a lovely

world