My uncle loved the work
Of Andrew Wyeth.

When I was young
He introduced me to
A lonely woman in the dying grass
Leaning toward home

Yearning for home.

Her solitude is significant
She is in the foreground
And home is so far away.

He told me what he saw.
He asked me what I saw.

The same.

The lonely dignity was everything.
The impossibility, nothing.

Years later my uncle would hand me
His book on Wyeth.

I learned:

Christina had dragged herself into the studio.
She knew all about this work
But said nothing--
Just let the man tell his story.

My uncle said so little
When he opened his art books.
Just sat beside me
So we could see what we would.

Those were late summer days
When the sky was as blue as his eyes

And the story,
As plain as day.