Andrew Wyeth, 1948

Fields no longer seized by a sere sameness, 
sunlight lingers to breathe warmth into 
the room’s every seam, returning to 

remind me: See? Imagine no virtue 

in hoping for so little. Here, I find myself 
given back to the animal I am, all fur, 
all flesh, musk and appetite, loping 

out of a season that saw the sun leant 

into its own diminishment. A creature 
surviving just to learn intimately 
what rutilance the lengthening day 

demands of your eyes, closed to the light. 

Held flank against flank, our forms’ 
every slip and slope exposed. Of this tenderness,
what should I hope when there are so many 

seasons left to pass? Imagine no virtue 

in hoping for so little. Your scent, curled 
beneath my sheets, a specter 
I would follow anywhere. See?

---

Author’s note: Ekphrasis has become a means of extending how I relate to an art object, a channel to examine the self through a lens that feels beyond it. I wrote this poem at the turn of winter to spring and at a moment where a season of contentment in my life seemed to be drawing to a close, which felt deeply disheartening. And yet here Wyeth opened a spare room to me and asked me to consider, at the end of one season, why I might not hope for even more warmth and affection in the lush seasons sprawling ahead.

Taylor Brunson is a poet whose work has been featured in perhappened, Non.Plus Lit, and The Ex-Puritan. She serves as an assistant poetry editor for Four Way Review and Nashville Review. Taylor can be found on Twitter, @taylor_thefox.