To the Milkmaid of Popindrecht

You stand before Julian Alden Weir He taught you to pose He and his brothers each took their turn Hunched over canvas in the dim farmhouse Thin brushes touch upon your features Weight shifted to one clog-clad foot All in blue Golden springs on your head A hand on your hip The other clutches a pitcher You stare at nothing in particular. The eyes haven’t a clear focus You aren’t very tall The wimple on your head looks more like a jacket, hastily draped It hardly looks natural And yet you judge me Your stance Your eyes Your thin salmon lips and the beehive-adorned blue blazer bonnet Cobweb-strewn copper jugs at your feet in the evening grass It all suggests a kind of satisfaction The work is dull but You’ve earned your golden beehives. The right to look both ways and know that you have something Weir lacked As his brushes drag across the canvas Telling the story he thinks you have to tell That no one is going to get by looking at you. Milkmaid of the sky-blue frock and heedlessly placed milk jugs, You tolerate the artist for his shilling. (based on a painting of the same name)