Poem 52

I only let myself write this poem on three conditions:
1. I will not say "mellow".
2. I will not say "fro".
3. I will not say "happy trees".

Honestly I got this idea from watching I Love the 80's on VH1. That makes me pretty lame.

For Bob Ross

It was the kind of thing you
couldn’t sell, maybe five bucks
at a rummage sale:
a painting of a waterfall,
evergreens, and mountains.
He made it in half an hour
on an easel set up with
white like a window into snow
against the black curtain.
With a blade
he cut black swipes
onto a horizon.
He sprouted bristle-point
leaves with a wide brush
on trunks he planted
in the foreground.
In time a canvas melted,
revealing a season.
The whole act so common to him
that he’d talk you through it,
as if he persuaded leaves from dirt,
encouraged land to mountain.
Each wonder so easy.