Andrew Wyeth's Secret Poem by William Waterway

The ancient room is austere—walls of faded white paint
floors of variable width lumber—milled locally—years of wear
a long pine table hosts stained patina of many generations
ladder-backed chairs surround—a few spares on the side

Betsy and I sip tea as Maine’s fall light fades through mullions
loud thumping footsteps on front steps—hinges creak
the doorframe fills with the silhouette of a thin man
wild hair halo against twilight sky—he squints into darkened room

Three heartbeats… “William”—says Betsy—“this is Andy”

Blue eyes meet as he steps into the room—rutted face smiling
he extends a hand stained with pigments—his grip is like a child’s
his wrinkled tweed jacket is adorned with grass and thistle burrs
his wind-blown gray hair displays other remnants of nature
After lobster dinner, Betsy settles me into a cabin—The Barnacle

Next day
invitation to drive around the farm with Andy as he paints
in the back seat sits his Cushing farm companion—a yellow lab
the faded blue Jeepster convertible stops in the middle of a large field
the bespeckled artist unloads his toolbox and a mason jar of water
The hood of his vehicle—his plein air throne—overlooks his domain

Watching over his shoulder—I see palette strokes bring life to the world
of his laptop canvass—water splatters—colors mix and flow like blood
he drops canvass to ground—stands up on the hood—looks down like God
he squats and quickly mixes colors on the hood—jumps to the ground
kneels over the canvass—adds a white line to the seascape

“See this white line”—he points—“that’s the wake from that sailboat
disappearing behind the trees over there—some people may look at
this white line and wonder why it’s there—only you and I will know”