Tiny

The tiniest window sits over my hearth
Housing a thin pane of glass,
The view from no matter the angle I look
Shifts only as seasons do pass.

Shamrock and emerald and deep forest greens
Stolen by ambers and golds,
Barren in branch and absent of scene
To buds that so bravely unfold.

Through this tiny window, on a tiny thin branch,
Occasional birds flitter by,
They sit and they sing and at times seem to glance
Straight in with inquisitive eyes.

What might they be thinking, those tiny bird brains,
Of my perch that sees so little change?
Do they think me as sad, or pathetic, or blessed,
Can they give my behavior a name?

Are they stronger these branches, these leaves, and these birds
Than I in my chair by the fire,
As they all face what comes with each rising sun
No choice to retreat or retire?

Often I dream of knocking it down
The wall that holds tight to that glass,
Let the whole world, the real world, come in
And brace for holding on fast.

That thin pane of glass some would argue is wise,
It’s what man has worked to attain,
But what is kept out and what is kept in
Is never remotely the same.

~ Leana Delle
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Number six of fifty-two in My Year of Sunday Poems challenge.

2 Comments

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  1. Love it Leana! Evokes a beautiful vision in my mind’s eye! M

  2. I read again…your wonderful poem! I sit and watch daily, as the little birds visit our tree throughout the seasons and occasionally sit on the ledge an peer into my cosy home. In winter I feel somewhat guilty sitting in my in my warm refuge, while these small, intripid, puffed-up survivors try to find refuge and a modicum of warmth in our hedge. They have been very scarce in our tree and hedge this winter and I can only hope they have survived the ordeal! Thank you for your insight and compassion! M
    (also posted and shared to FB)

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