The paintings stand as a testament
to all the places he went,
all the things he did in his life.
There is an oceanscape:
bright and true, the azurine blue,
with ships and a lighthouse to shine
the way to sailors on the sea.
There is a young girl, dressed
in a dress with flounces, pearls
around her neck: just slightly misshapen,
this folk-art wonder.
There is a view of a quaint town:
horses and buggies. Empire houses.
Paths of dirt. Vegetable gardens.
And a secret cove, in which swim
people out enjoying the summer warmth.
Of course, there is a bowl of fruit.
Apples and pears and grapes
looking as if to burst right out
of the container in which they lie.
A quiet café scene.
A mountain rising high.
A beach with foamy surf.
A city plentiful with skyscrapers.
An Earthrise from past the Moon.
No sailor he. No astronaut.
No painter. No styler of fruit.
No, but a constant traveler
in this world, one who saw, through art,
a way into eternity.
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