The Helga Pictures of Andrew Wyeth

He told your life in whispers
layer upon layer painted
the way the earth herself was built
against the dead of winter
the cocoon-like feeling of grey lostness
mixed with sound of snowflakes dying
the whole story doesn't show
as you look away
and time holds its breath

I find myself looking for your hands
to back this dream with truth
sheepskin softness wrapped in calloused fingers
the abstract flash of moonlight and shadows
caught in the corner of your eye
woven with the flowers in your crown
and framed against the landscape
It catches more light before you hide
in that great Loden Coat
a Prussian sitting by the tree

Later you lie beneath cracked plaster
barren wires stretching from the bulb
the woman you once were
now imprisoned in the barracoon
flaking tones of white flashed yellow
masquerading as sunlight
sheets crumpled low
and day hiding outside drawn shade
of the broken window in the doorway
teasing one more truth from his brush

Pageboy in braids now on her knees
the motion of lovers and daydreams
the sunshield frozen so nothing rests
nothing overflows from Easter Sunday
to autumn campfires
The orchard now green and flecked with leaves
communion seeped into the subconscious
as once again you look away
forty years of fury captured in
a peasant dress trimmed with black velvet