A splash of colour in a sky, which otherwise was grey
I met, above clouds on high, an artist on that day
On homeward flight, from my cocoon spun of corporate tire
She seemed to me a butterfly, with wings of bright desire
How was it that we spoke so free, on subjects so diverse?
As if upon a stage we played, our dialogue rehearsed
For her, a brush, for me, a pen, are keys to hidden doors
Behind which on eagle wings, passion swirls and soars
— Wayne Visser