the more time i spend with mr. field

the more i learn.

he never went to school after sixth grade.

he had to work.

and then he went to fight in the civil war

on account of his strong feelings about slavery.

and when he returned, he built

carriages and sleighs.

but what he loved most was to paint them

with little flowers and scenes,

and didn’t anyone need to show him how.

just like most things he does,

he sits and thinks about it a while,

till he figures it out.

i wash his dishes in the basin

and he sits at the table,

his bald head the brightest

spot in the room.

he’s thin as a broomstick,

gangling tall,

his eyes cloudy.

he holds a palette up close to his face

and then he hawks his shoulders and touches his brush to the

waiting canvas.

i asked if i could look through his paintings

instead of just dusting them.

he said i could have one if i wanted. he said the pickings were

kind of slim these days,

that the best had long gone.

i remember when he offered me the typewriter.

i wondered if someone would say i stole a painting

if i carried one home.

mr. field, i said,

watching as he

sprinkled a meadow with bluets under a cloudy sun.

we could go out sometime so you could remember things to paint.

i never do like being seen with white folks,

but mr. field is different.

anyway, he said he didn’t need to go out.

he couldn’t see well enough anyway to make a difference.

besides, he said, he

could just sit down and think about a mountain he once saw

or the end of a forest road

and that was enough.

i guess that comes of being around since civil war days.

i have a lot more seeing to take in

before i can sit down and rest with it.