Dreaming

I buried Andrew Wyeth
In a yellow field
I held my grandsons
Told them how I feel
I rode my horses
Once again into spring
I woke to discover
It was only a dream
Now I wonder
Why did I bury
Wyeth in his art?

Andrew Wyeth  Open House
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads Open Link Monday
Poets United

The Mill

For The Mag.  Thanks, Tess.

The Mill by Andrew Wyeth

The mill was silent.  The stream frozen. The last wood was laid on the fire as the family gathered around the table to pray for spring.

The Mag: The Squall

It's time again!  The week doesn't move fast enough to get to Magpie Tales' challenge.  I love these!  No restrictions except keep it short and clean.  Sign up and give it go.

Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

 Clearing skies,

The squall had passed.

Coats empty now

Dripped and waited.

 

Watching the path

One, two, three

The empty pegs cried

Watching the sea.