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Voyage
– on considering a painting by Andrew Wyeth
Marion Jones

Pitted, an anchor rusts beneath the trees
in front of the house, a hull with trunks for masts;
branches fork, their rigging hoists leafy canvas;
moored, the vessel plows the grassy seas.

At a table, the shipwright's pen scrolls paisleys;
time and place disappear as mind and hand
navigate – beginning, middle, end – a draft,
head and body, tail, the circle of Pisces.

From house and orchard, wind lifts; the phantom
craft sails on, while I am asking, Why write?
If not to order chaos, to name the unnamed, then
to set wrongs right, to bring the dead alive.
Between the Alpha and the Omega, no diagram
guides, but the ship weighs anchor, as the word arises.