Even So

Andrew Wyeth

Winter 1946

Even So

It was December,

and the sky

was shaggy and chill.I wandered alone

across a stubbled field,

my body

bitter with cold,

the ragged trail

of my footprints

crisp as a longing

on the new snow.

In the clogged branches

somewhere above me,

a woodthrush-

left behind for some reason

I couldn't guess

after its fellows were gone

-decorated the air

with one liquid note.

And I knew

that the season

was not about magi or angels,

but the joy that abides

in the triumphant wail of birth:

we hurt, and are not healed;

even so, we sing.

~ Robert Lavett Smith ~

Daystar

Andrew Wyeth

Christina’s World

Daystar

She wanted a little room for thinking:

but she saw diapers steaming on the line,

a doll slumped behind the door.

So she lugged a chair behind the garage

to sit out the children's naps.

Sometimes there were things to watch—

the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,

a floating maple leaf. Other days

she stared until she was assured

when she closed her eyes

she'd see only her own vivid blood.

She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared

pouting from the top of the stairs.

And just what was mother doing

out back with the field mice? why,

building a palace. Later

that night when Thomas rolled over and

lurched into her, she would open her eyes

and think of the place that was hers

for an hour—where

she was nothing, pure nothing, in the middle of the day.

~ Rita Dove ~

Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?

Andrew Wyeth

The Master’s Bedroom

Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?

"Ah, are you digging on my grave

My loved one? -- planting rue?"

-- "No, yesterday he went to wed

One of the brightest wealth has bred. '

It cannot hurt her now,' he said,

'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave?

My nearest dearest kin?"

-- "Ah, no; they sit and think, 'What use!

What good will planting flowers produce?

No tendance of her mound can loose

Her spirit from Death's gin.' "

"But some one digs upon my grave?

My enemy? -- prodding sly?"

-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate

That shuts on all flesh soon or late,

She thought you no more worth her hate,

And cares not where you lie."

"Then, who is digging on my grave?

Say -- since I have not guessed!"

-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,

Your little dog, who still lives near,

And much I hope my movements here

Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave . . .

Why flashed it not on me

That one true heart was left behind!

What feeling do we ever find

To equal among human kind

A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave

To bury a bone, in case

I should be hungry near this spot

When passing on my daily trot.

I am sorry, but I quite forgot

It was your resting-place."

~ Thomas Hardy ~