Plein Air: On the Painting of Trees
This was their form of Creation:
My aunt Mary made her living painting portraits.
My Grandmother Rose baked bread and pies.
Mary was my mother’s eldest sister,
a professional artist,
and my role model.
Mary, when she did not have a commission,
found other things that kept her at the easel:
often still lifes and plein air landscapes.
Rose was my father’s mom.
Her creativity was edible.
Until last night I had never thought of
Grandma Rose in terms of Art.
But, she also painted trees.
Each and every tree trunk in her yard: white
from the ground upward six feet.
Exactly six feet.
Without a yardstick.
(Conceptual Art in my head alone)


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