He is painting that same mountain again.
You know it. It looks like the Matterhorn
but is probably really in the Canadian Rockies.
Bogus, Bob, I think, considering I place his accent
some'eres outta West Virginia most like; and besides,
in our writers' group, we are wont to say you
best stick to writin' what you best know.
 
Then he moves from that white tri-face, loading his
fan brush with so much color and—spoosh, spoosh, spoosh,
right before my eyes, he erects the loveliest pine tree.
 
It's not how he paints that keeps me rapt, however, but what he says.
"No tree stands alone.  Every tree needs a friend."
And spoosh, spoosh, spoosh there are two, three, four trees
suddenly swaying alongside his mountain lake, soughing
and sighing in the sweet wind sweeping down that majestic range.
 "I think some happy little bushes live there." Spoosh, spoosh, spoosh.
 "Maybe another happy little tree lives here."
 
By the end of the thirty minutes, I am a gone dog.
I vow to buy some oils, sign up for a class, maybe even
send in for his series.
 
All because his real art lies in his benediction. So easy, so pure,
going down warm like Grandma's liniment on ricked muscles.
He bids me treat myself well, treat others well,
and come back and see him real soon.

This poem first appeared in Volume One On-line (June 2019).
Used here with permission.