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A Window

oldhouse

It is a window-

–I can see him strolling arms behind his back

–across acres covered by wide sheltering trees

–along shadow and sunbeam in well worn track

–pensive as he surveys all his life shall be

It is a window-

–I can feel him peering out at me from lofty perch

–over centuries gazing into now as he keeps watchful eye

–wondering why strangers such as we left him in the lurch

–missing what he left behind once passed his time to die

It is a window-

–I can hear his voice in my soul as his ghost asks why

–whispering quietly in male voice as gentle wind in my ear

–he sees the changes wrought bad and good in time gone by

–concerned and lamenting the loss of all he once held dear

It is a window-

–I feel in his invisible touch such pain as workers take apart

–his fear in not knowing whether they will ever set it right

–the weight of his worry as though lead poured upon his heart

–yet naught can he do for in death his power fades to night

It is a window-

–Glass that keeps him in his time and me in my own

–though his eyes follow me and his whispered plea is heard

–I can do nothing to change the course of time now flown

–This place is just a window and his but long past spirit words.

Karen Quinn 2003 (Mercer Museum- Tower Window)

 

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