I talked to the Mose That nobody knows, The one who paints from the heart.
He sat on his bed With his hat on his head And told me the secret of Art.
With a whisper and wink, “It’s not what you think. It comes and goes in dreams.”
A brush with life. A brush with death. It’s always more than it seems.
* * *
Note: I met Mose in his home in Montgomery, Alabama, where I watched him paint a red pico bird for me that now hangs in my home. He sat on his bed with his hat on painting in the light of the December afternoon. I asked him where he got his ideas. He made his final stroke and handed it to me. A little tear of paint ran from the red bird's eye.