Spanish-folk-carved alabaster, mouthed ‘Oh’ for six decades
overlooking New Jersey’s rolling hills. Brought back home
from WWI, it surveyed the old soldier and his college professor
partner, gentleman farmers unencumbered by propriety.

Impervious to the influenza
pandemic, inflicted on victorious
and defeated alike, its gaze
oversaw a farm-house studio,
where eleven public school texts
and four novels were written;
where tufted fleece rugs loomed
in primary colors, mimicked oils
of painter friend, Hans Hofmann;
where stoney mustachioed charm
drifted over the tranquil buzz
of roommates canning tomatoes, stock
piling apples for winter, squeezing
vineyard grapes into barrels—and
making art out of wool and words.