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.