It is <br />Twenty-two below zero <br />Has been for two days. <br /> <br />The snow wraps you in, <br />Like a bride that has had second, <br />Maybe third guesses <br /> <br />'This marriage is not a good idea <br />This child may be stillborn <br />I have been cheated out of my youth'. <br /> <br />It is a natural succumbing to grief <br />The trees are not green <br />No flowers <br />No endless possibilities. <br />Death exists <br />Unicorns cannot, <br />Will not survive this cold <br />Are better to not have existed at all. <br /> <br />Too little light too little day <br />The landscape is cold <br />Dead and tired. <br /> <br />No masterpieces <br />No color <br />No painter's palate <br />It is the dead of winter. <br /> <br />Andrew Wyeth, Painter, Dies at 91 <br />Says the New York Times. <br />My tea kettle <br />Cries with grief!<br /><br />r james sterzinger<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/andrew-wyeth-painter-dies-at-91-for-jack-london-for-m/
