The canvas

If I could paint a picture of what you were to me,
The canvas would remain white
And I’m not sure of what you’d see.
It would look rather empty,
With no colour, sketch or form,
A simple square, made for art
No Picasso here be born.
For you, my sister, are beyond colour
And no drawing will quite capture
Your smile, your laugh, your kindness here
And in this I take rapture.
For your subtleties and various ways
Were beautiful enough
To paint my days.