Wyeth's Wind from the Sea

We would do best, perhaps, to let it breathe through us—to stand still as it roars through the window and floods into the room. After all, there’s something soothing about the way the wind rouses the curtains. It sends them splashing, pondering. And though we do not speak (being so enraptured) we feel it is the fin of an angel that kisses our cheeks, that balloons diaphanously in the gale. Brushing though the ochre—sweeping, whizzing, clashing, massing—the Wind from the Sea pours into the room, and one finds one’s soul ajar.