Anyone can paint happy little trees
——tapping in layers until

there is a halo, soft and hovering through
——odorless mineral spirits.

After his military service, Ross decided
——he would no longer raise his voice

gave soothing encouragement still airing
——mostly for people who will never

learn to paint but who learn to relax instead.
——Ross whispers to me, reminds me

you don’t need that much paint. You don’t need
——many colors to make a memory. You might

need a nap. That’s okay. And did you know
——that jeans are a timeless look?

Landscape made an impression on Ross.
——He frequently mentioned Alaska

where he was stationed in winter scenes balancing
——warm and cool tones. Friends everywhere.

When I first learned to paint in oils, I was reluctant
——to blend the colors smooth

left great sepia daubs on the neck of the vase.
——I couldn’t tell—did I like it better

this way? Maybe I was just scared about my potential
——to smear a picture into mud.

It’s not so much about making money as
——figuring out how to make a life

making art. Not so much about making a life
——as figuring out how to keep treading above

I despair figuring out how to paint
——a tree while making a landscape

out of thin air. Wet on wet. Ross taped
——31 seasons of happy accidents.

I never liked his paintings much, yet
——was mesmerized by the process—

the colors mixed in x-shaped strokes, circling
——glow, the relentless supply of happy clouds

remarkable—how gentle a person could be
——with a brushstroke.

/

Allison Burris writes whimsical, humanist poems from her home in Oakland, CA. She holds an MLIS from San Jose State University and grew up reading in the drizzly Pacific Northwest. Her most recent publications are in NonBinary Reviewand Red Ogre Review. Connect with her: https://linktr.ee/allisonburris.