Ash
He used to store his paintings
In the attic above the garage
Lots of landscapes
Mountain scenes
Swimmers at Big Deep
You’d see him in the early morning
Sketching or painting at his easel
Preoccupied like Cézanne
In the regal beauty
Of earth or body
Thousands of pictures
Piled up against the walls
In his will he asked they be burned
His mission complete
He lived the life
He wanted to live
For painting
He lived for painting
And now he was dead
And the paintings
Would burn
I smelled the fire in the yard
I came by and watched the
Canvases and paper burn
The colors turning to ash
—Bruce Weber
This article appears in November 2016.
