Christina's World
by Martin A. Ramos

After Andrew Wyeth

On a hill on the horizon
The large clapboard house—
Pale mustard-colored, muted, ghostly.

The prairie grass
Leans wave-like to the right,
Bleached no doubt by an Indian sun.

Panning to the left
Her august figure rules the landscape.
Mysteriously in repose,

She dreams, but of what:
Dancing on the beach,
Running a relay race—

Or, yes, the gift
Of her two lifeless legs
Like stone?

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