Uncle Mel

We called him “Uncle Mel” but he

could have been Merlin the Magician

the way he took brush or pen

and with a few deft strokes

made wild horses leap ravines

and clouds consume the Bighorn Sky,

the colors so clear and crisp

you could hear the thunder rolling

across the rain-soaked sage.

We were city kids living

a country summer, and along with

the Good Book he taught us the Gospel

of fireworks, fly-fishing, and the Holy Order

of running barefoot in the grass.

But our favorite time was crowding around

at table trying to guess his latest trick

before completion:  “It’s a horse!”

“No, it’s an Indian!”

“It’s an Indian on a horse!”

We watched bug-eyed as lines merged,

kissed and fled, swirled, dived,

and somersaulted until—Abracadabra!

Shazam!  A cowboy on a bucking

brahma bull appeared.  Wow! 

Like magic.  Wow!

When we grew older and Santa Claus died

and the Tooth Fairy was exposed

as a consummate fraud, and our fantasy

frontier summers grew slimmer

while the weight of the world grew fatter,

he reminded us that dreams

are not culprits from the past

or play things to be boxed up

and stacked in the attic

but the very fire that fuels us

through our journey on Earth,

through our longest days

and our darkest nights.

He taught us to see beyond simple shape

and shade, the congruent lines

and easy colors.

He saw God in every twisted limb, the slashing rain,

the movement of cattle across a stream.

But even more he saw God

in each of us, not as we were

but as we someday (with some

seasoning, smarts, hard knocks,

coaxing, prodding, a little of this

and a heap of that) might become;

always the kind and encouraging word

regardless of how badly we had

cluttered our canvas with clashing colors

and freak show creatures.

He knew the atoning power

of draft, re-draft, and do-over,

the double-edged miracle

of turpentine and forgiveness.

Now our Uncle Mel, our beloved Merlin,

has performed the ultimate

disappearing act, and yet we see

him everywhere:  in the muscle-bound

mountains and the frothing clouds

and horses grazing in the fields;

we see him standing solitary

on a butte leaning into his easel,

Stetson low over the brow,

the wind whipping his coattails,

a palette in one hand, in the other a brush

he wields like a wizard

fending off the darkness

while summoning up magic

from the blue beyond.