STALEMATE

(after viewing Monet’s painting)

The houses at the edge

of the field

are not inhabited

They stand abreast

in silent challenge

Doors are dark

windows stare

roofs are pointed and bleak

Dark clouds pursue

retreating blue of sky

and shadows fall

griming the old gray walls

A meadow of golden flowers

–marching waves of color—

halts at a vague dead-end

The houses at the end of the field

and the flowered meadow

frozen forever

in silent confrontation

It is not an uneven war