on Andrew Wyeth’s French Twist, 1967

And now, the snow—
inevitable and sudden.
How could I ever exit this place in my white coat of spring?
I insist upon it; it clings to me, the pleats draping over thin hips
gaping at my knees.
It’s a winter afternoon and the room darkens, soot lines the empty grate.
My hair’s pinned, just so—
I’m readied, now to take the horse along an uncut path in woods or pasture;
the ice froze thick this season and remains far into the day.
My boots wait against the wall, pressed onto the thick-planked floor—
confined to immobility
there is nothing to do but clench the dark table
and contemplate a fire, long-spent.