The window becomes a part
of his mind's history, the entrance
of days into it.
Wendell Berry, "Window Poems, 16"
1 ~ Sunday Evening
A certain knowing and perspective have come
To the man from the fact his window is also
A door, and so what passes through his life,
Hours looking out from his desk as he works
To woods almost near enough to touch, is not
A clear separation but invitation - all that enters
His room he also enters - and outside his window
The rain and fog deepen; on his side he waits
To write his reflections, looking out to what is
Revealed, looking for the words to make a clarity.
2 ~ Monday Morning
The fog and rain drifted off overnight, and this
Morning his window opens on sunlight, dripping
Pines and birdsong. Nine years of mornings now
He has come to this desk and window to begin
Again not the day but another life, until each
Beginning has become as familiar now as all that
Looks in on him as he writes of what his gradual
Knowing has come to allow, though knowing too
That much still seems diminished by his words.
3 ~ Monday Afternoon
The rain returns, and the fog, both gathering into
Deepening pools beneath the pines and shimmering
In a way he thinks it might seem from the other side
Of a waterfall, or how fish lean against the rippling
Surface of their own watery window, reflecting light
Or, like now, dull as the reflection in a tarnished mirror.
The window is his frame of reference for what he has
Become in this place he has made of what he seeks
And of what has been lost, and in some way that he
Doesn't understand, he has become grateful for both,
Sensing a consciousness that is his and yet also outside
Of him, something not of his making but his receiving.
4 ~ Monday Night
Now a cold spring night settles softly on his window,
Swirling and shimmering from the old oil lamp and
Firelight within and whorls of fog smoking the glass
On the other side of this darkness he has come to,
Knowing a kind of comfort in, now in his years alone,
The night asking nothing of him and he little to give.
It is light that demands of him some last lightness
Of him that he no longer knows nor needs to seek,
Seeing himself in the window, the firelight and the fog.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 568 times
Written on 2015-04-29 at 15:09
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