The tiny canvas caught her eye daily,

often more than once a day,

sitting there amongst her trinkets and memories,

waiting to become more than it was,

the tiny pots of paint at the ready,

the brush, casually laying across the white field,

she thought of the delicate strokes the brush offered,

the vibrant red, waiting in it's pot,

the yellow gold of sunlight,

the green of earth,

and blue of sky,

she wondered what the painting would be,

flowers on a field of green,

one giant red rose,

a balloon, perhaps the hot air type, with basket below,

maybe a mermaid peaking out of the sea,

a house on a tree lined street,

something to do with the beach,

or mountains,

or a stream that wanders through woods,

maybe an animal, or a house plant,

whatever it would be,

it was ready,

but she wasn't yet. 

Soon, she told the canvas, I'll know what to do.