I found her—
the girl who painted,
the self I’d given away,
waiting on a stranger’s wall
for me to be brave enough,
selfish enough,
to finally come back for her.
I live under that willow tree now.
I paint every day.
I fell in love at sixty-nine.
And I learned the thing
I’d spent fifty years forgetting:
that it is never too late
to go halfway around the world
