At A Window

Her squinting eyes and puckered face
poised to paint beneath the branch
a wounded mouth, a gloomy cheek;
the greening leaves bear too much weight
and brush the gloves thrown on the path.
She knows those fingers, knows their past,
what poignancies they represent,
that clutch for someone out of frame.
If canvas could but capture noise
and catch the rustle of a bush,
the rattle of a passing cart,
that stillness of a mother and child
ghosted at a window.



Poetry by Ray Miller
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Written on 2026-01-23 at 11:14

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Ray Miller
Thanks Jim.
2026-01-24


jim The PoetBay support member heart!
How can a poem be so vivid and so ethereal? And, entrancing? And readable? And tell such a tale?

I don't know, but you do.

jim
2026-01-23