After Andrew Wyeth
On a hill on the horizon
the large clapboard house—
pale mustard-colored, muted, ghostly.
The prairie grass
leans wave-like to the right,
bleached no doubt by an Indian sun.
Panning to the left
her august figure rules the landscape.
Mysteriously in repose,
she dreams, but of what:
the ecstasy of walking,
the gift of her two useless legs?
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