The Artist's Touch

The Artist's Touch

A gentle rain from darkened sky;
the crickets sing a lullaby
in counterpoint to the wind's sigh.
The day ends in a hush.
Adieu, it says – not a goodbye.
There is no need to rush.

A touch of red fades into blue,
her pallet contains every hue,
as each creation starts anew;
an artist's master stroke.
Each night there is a new debut
that fades in shades of smoke.

Nature moves to her own cadence,
ignoring time's passing pretense -
against its strength there's no defense.
Her art cannot be rushed.
She knows the moment to commence,
each color softly brushed.

An entry for the August round of "Verdant Poetry Contest" 
Open Prompt