At The Window

At The Window

Somehow the frame stays all pictures

I have of you—either looking

Out on wide lawns at dusk, or in

On a ceiling from the ground below,

Lying elbows bent, hands crossed to

Cradle that wondering infant

Against grass my head. 

                                        And you there,

Blonde lamp shadowed from sun just

Above the roof, looking like a moon

Washed in tides of studious brown

Before stars come out, bare forearms

Pressed on the sill, Meditation

In a bright blue smock turning Dutch

Interior dark.

                     Now a chalice

Chimes instants to a stealthy ray

Which might pick out a swelling lute’s

Strings in silence none dares break, chords

None knows how to strum, even as

Fallen on them silvered the sun

Impaled on the rose’s thorns dies.