For Sandra Nystrom

Your steep deserted road:
Around a hill it wends
And tapers toward the sky
Or where the canvas ends.

In dim but rosy distance
The stubborn eye desires
To trace the road beyond
The place it disappears.

What lurks around the bend?
Any drama lies
Beyond the line of sight,
No houses and no trees.

Low clouds, or the low light,
Refuse to give away
The hour, which though veiled,
Is surely one or two:

Dawn gleam or sunset glow,
Promise or memory.
There is no need to know.
The Painting doesn’t say.

But endlessly your road
Unspools around that hill
Against a moody sky
Changing still.