National Gallery of Art

I can recall the breathless moment:
Heart knowing to stop for love before feet,
a quick about-face grinding sparks
on marble flooring. Lace curtains
fluttering on a salty breeze.
His name was Wyeth.

I was 17; he was immortal.
I could not love him less.
7 years passed before he found me
on a desert honeymoon.
My new husband humored the meeting.
All together, we watched an approaching storm
amble over Arizona peaks, the taste of salt
hot on our tongues, etched landscapes
burning bright in electric afterglow.

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