It is
Twenty-two below zero
Has been for two days.

The snow wraps you in,
Like a bride that has had second,
Maybe third guesses

'This marriage is not a good idea
This child may be stillborn
I have been cheated out of my youth'.

It is a natural succumbing to grief
The trees are not green
No flowers
No endless possibilities.
Death exists
Unicorns cannot,
Will not survive this cold
Are better to not have existed at all.

Too little light too little day
The landscape is cold
Dead and tired.

No masterpieces
No color
No painter's palate
It is the dead of winter.

Andrew Wyeth, Painter, Dies at 91
Says the New York Times.
My tea kettle
Cries with grief!

r james sterzinger

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/andrew-wyeth-painter-dies-at-91-for-jack-london-for-m/