Andrew Wyeth; Wind from the Sea
There was no breeze
The day she moved the curtain—
Its fraying jellyfish tendrils
Dressed her nothing in lace.
Each yellowing Arcadian flora
Sewn by a soil embrace
Ruffles along the stitches
Backlit by the sill’s charlotte.
She stares, eyes with the salt
Through the starlet,
Between the will-o-wisp
Trailing its flax,
To the lane outside
Two deep rutted tracks
Flowing down the dune
Taunting its prisoner.
She’s waded through sands
And burning sycamore
And even now she scrapes a fingernail on the wall
Chipping away at the dry wash.
Waiting for the plow to return
From its acres of pumpkins and squash
And all yellowing things
Sounding like steam forced through a brassy tear
A coarse and weightless netting
Would catch light with her hair
But the sun only reflects
The particles of juice boxes, crackerjack games
And the old skins of cedar and dust.
Paper skinned flames
Brings a yellowing sky to ochre wall
All in the view of a far off sea of dreams
The color of stale love grows dim.
She sees the clouds
Salted with a storm
And the sky, filled with milk, blinds bright
But it is the hazing dark for which she sits
Licked with heat
Walking and waking on hominy grits,
Fading in and out in a way
That could be mistaken cinematic.
Eyes separated from time
By a primrose veil of monochromatic
Distractions, she fails to see
The him moving the curtain already beside her.
©2014 Lex Vex