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?
