Read Poems by
(Andrew Wyeth, American Painter, 1917-2009)
Incomprehensibility is often
as beautiful as knowledge.
I don’t remember just how old I was
when I first saw her in that protracted crawl.
But I still recall the fear I felt at seeing her
in that open field alone, the frozen motion
of her angular body, her spindly arms,
her insect-like legs, her head with its partial face
looking up at the distant house, unreachable,
exposed against a washed out sky. Strangest of all
was the absurb contradiction of her body:
part living, part dead – the torso and shoulders
raised up, the arms and hands pushing against
the ground in her struggle to inch forward; this,
contrasted by the shape of her wasp-like hips,
heavy, inert, and the exposed leg – wooden-like,
useless – dragging from her pink dress.