Monday, April 11, 2005
The view from your window has changed:
at first it was a safety net where my eyes tumbled,
a cue for small talk as the afternoon weather
swerved and backtracked,
a summer greenness, unremarkably steady
against the maelstrom yearnings behind the glass.
As time snaked away across the months
we took to sharing the view from your window:
watched acers blush and scorch into autumn,
leaves sashay and spin,
cobbles glisten sleek under rain.
But after a while I began to neglect your window:
just another piece of furniture,
an unwatched plasma screen where
anodyne footage looped, colours ran and smudged
while we chased after more grandiose
hilltops and lakesides.
One day, arriving, I saw you at your window.
You waved. I felt the view wrap around me.
The next day it was me there, looking out.
I sensed in turn your arrival, the view breathed bright
as you broke into the street,
as the sun sculpted your mouth.
The next weekend, in sharper weather,
we returned from walking around the lake,
strode through the view,
smiled up at your window,
felt its acknowledgment.