The Painter

The Old Italian stopped to chat
Among the field of Lupine
His hand waved tales he’d told before
Of travels, women and wine

His fingers were worn and tipped in paint
With a hint of turpentine
And a life well lived, a laugh well laughed
Had creased his face with lines

These flowers were his subjects now
As much as they were mine
And although he gave the fields to me
The best gift was his time