Through the Window

I looked through the glassy pane

to the window across the way

shrouded by boughs of flowers, hot pink.

The old woman lives there

and I imagine her on the stair

which appears in my view.

There’s a picture on the wall

–is it floral too?

Or, perhaps it’s the one she loves…

an old photograph, which captures time.

I see at the top of the straight staircase

a passage which goes this way or that.

Many nights I peer out into the dark,

the boughs now blanketed in silky black,

and I spy a light on to the right

in a room which lies upstairs, towards the back.

I’ve developed a camaraderie with her

and I say “Goodnight friend” as I imagine

her sitting in a papered room, with rose drapes

and lilacs in a vase

in a comfortable blue chair

covered with a quilted plaid throw.

But, how would I know?

I’ve seen her in the daylight

but she has just walked on past

carefully stepping on arthritic feet

keeping her balance precariously.

We’ve exchanged pleasant greetings.

But, at nights, when I utter “Goodnight friend”

I wonder…

What is it really like to sit in that room,

to tread the stair,

and to gaze out that other window across the way

back at mine

and imagine?



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