THE
WINDOW
Sets in antithesis to life
Is what in living we lay claim to,
Is what gives light and shade to living
Though not with brush or knife.
The painted curtain never stirs–
Airlessness and hourlessness-
And a dead painter still demurs
When we intrude our selfhood ;
But even as he can talk by silence
So, blinkered and acquisitive,
Even at the heart of lust and conflict
We can find form, our lives transcended
While and because we live.
But here our jargon fails; no word,
'Miracle' or 'catalysis,'
Will fit what dare not have occurred
But does occur regardless;
Let then the poet like the parent
Take it on trust and, looking out
Through his own window to where others
Look out at him, be proudly humbled
And jettison his doubt.
The air blows in, the pigeons cross-–
Communication! Alchemy!
Here is profit where was loss
And what were dross are golden,
Those are friends who now were foreign
And gentler shines the face of doom,
The pot of flowers inspires the window,
The air blows in, the vistas open
And a sweet scent pervades the room.
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