Each time I come through the door
of your basement apartment floor
I see canvas colors change,
Listen to what I hear you say.
I hear your colors,
I see your shapes.
Your work in progress
comes of age.

You coax form from space.
Your hand translates your heart's grace.
Your brush unlocks the door
to the room where you live for what you're living for.
You coax the colors,
you sing the shapes.
You work your progress,
you come of age.

Sometimes a song crawls down my sleeve.
Sometimes I hammer a thick gold leaf.
I force it, it implodes:
Living thing, living soul.
Can't force the colors. You have to wait.
The work in progress. She gets her way.

That's how it works with you and me:
It's gonna be what it's gonna be.
Your canvas knows what to paint.
My song will sing if I get outta the way.
She knows her color,
She knows her shape.
The work in progress,
She takes some faith.

You make me smile inside my brain.
You strike your chord in a tender place.
Your canvas and my six strings,
California, Maine, and wherever in between.
Amazing colors, amazing grace.
I like your colors. I like your grace.
The work in progress
Comes of age.