at the white window

Whatever one sees beyond it –
green lawn, gray sky, blue heaving sea –

it’s clear that the window’s framing of the view
is half the meaning, maybe more.

The room is bare, the floorboards simple,
the sunlight falls in angles on the floor.

By being here alone, our sight
entering this picture, thoughtfully,

we celebrate both solitude and its mysterious
opposite, the sense of never being quite alone,

of having dim companions – from the past,
the future, from unsensed dimensions –

as we move slowly to the window,
never to raise the sash, or even touch the pane,

but simply to look out, acknowledging
our unabashed humanity, both frame and view.


1 comment:

  1. this is actually _the_ window poem, together with that Stevens-one about curtains (in the house of the metaphysician) could make the Tome-book just by themselves. wonderful!!!