My friend paints sunsets

The following is a bit of poetry that I've had bouncing around my head for awhile, and finally put down tonight to be read.

There are times I look up to the heavens and see,
A piece of her art stretched out before me.

I recognize the artist, I swear it is so,
Her signature is hidden, but her work I do know.

She needs no initials, no byline, no cursive mark,
to make me think of her while waiting for dark.

It's not every night that she makes a piece,
the time between varies, from days into weeks.

Still it is wonderful when she lets her brush fly,
all over her easel, the great twilight sky.

No work of canvas and oil could ever compare,
to the beauty she makes with the clouds and the air.