It was a night in September
When the rain trickled across the panes
And the light from the roads
Reflected the thoughts of weary travelers
Spun into artwork on the glass.

You and I were artists then,
Exploring the contours of a much different canvas.
Young and naive, hoping that our guessed brushstrokes
Could create a masterpiece.

And some looked, and said it was beautiful.
But all great art fades in time.
Our painting was not meant for a museum
Nor to be hung above the hearth.

And here I am, a finer artist,
Many months after that autumn night.
And still the rain falls
The lights dance upon the glass
But the painting above the fire
Bares a different signature.