On Observing Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth*

The One from Before, was no farmer, no cook, no shepherd. No anchor.

The One from Before was no tailor or sailmaker. Untamed ends left to shred to nothing, the remains useless against the ceaseless wind.

The One from Before was no mother or father, not even a solicitous house guest with kindnesses to repay.

The One from Before was no steward of the garden in spring, nor mitten knitter in winter. No reader of stories through which to bear the ceaseless landscape.

The One from Before no longer feels the cold, or the infernal, buggy summer breeze, or the crystalline snow.

The One from Before is gone with that wind which no longer blows in to unquiet my mind. Off towards the sun, high, to burn. Maybe low, where food, and clothes, and shelter, and family, even, are no longer required.

Where there is no order, just crumbling leaves and fading light, and the echo of the creaky front door closing behind the One from Before it all.

* If you aren’t familiar with the painting, look it up. It’s worth it. So many untold tales in there waiting to be thought of. This is a flash of just one. I need cease and desist letters from lawyers as much as I need writer’s block, so I won’t include the image here. As for what the painting says to you, you get to fill in your own blank.