I thought this poem is very thought-provoking. I’m not sure what the last line mean exactly, but I am left with a sense of sadness after reading the poem.
In ethics class so many years ago,
our teacher asked this question every fall;
if there were a fire in a museum,
which would you save, a Rembrandt painting,
or an old woman who hadn’t many
years left anyhow? Restless on hard chairs,
caring little for pictures or old age,
we’d opt one year for life, the next for art
and always half-heartedly. Sometimes
the woman borrowed my grandmother’s face
leaving her usual kitchen to wander
some drafty, half imagined museum.
One year, feeling clever, I replied
why not let the woman decide herself?
Linda, the teacher would report, eschews
the burdens of responsibility.
This fall in a real museum I stand
before a real Rembrandt, old woman,
or nearly so, myself. The colors
within this frame are darker than autumn,
darker even than winter – the browns of earth,
though earth’s most radiant elements burn,
through the canvas. I know now that woman
and painting and season are almost one
and all beyond saving by children.