The year was 1892,
Where the sun glowed like never before.
Her soft mahogany curls were elegantly folded into her head,
The pink blush vibrant against her porcelain skin.
Her easel was flooded with elaborate strokes,
The tones gathered from the glorious flowers erected in the fenced off garden.
The authentic golden beauty was aching from behind her, arching forward toward the warm summer morning beams.
"How funny," she whispered, "They remind me of you."
The canvas illuminated the "you" she had just mentioned, the man positioned in a gorgeous array of scenery, yet he was the focus; the true vision in her mind's eye. She wondered where he was, and why he had not yet answered her artist's call.
Her back curved toward the sunflowers and golden rods behind her in a hand-painted vase, and she made a gesture with her hands.
"I will marry you someday."
That's when a soft patter broke the silence - she was being beckoned beyond her dwelling on this day.