At the green window
peeling paint, needing upkeep
(where the flowers were)
a shadow now–
two pine needles
a cloud moving
slowly west…
along the coast;
I can see those
But no vestige
of last summer
just a passing comment
about the weather
from Jeannie in the hall
“Rain coming later!”
How does she know?

The window, in question
didn’t bring you in–
we couldn’t stop
the hard light, at times
from flooding through
and hurting our eyes;
I tried pulling the blinds
repeatedly, throwing
their odd stripes, sometimes
on you–lying naked
on the floor–the blinds
fell off awkwardly
to one side
during one effort
to shut out the world.

Now, the window, on Saturday
is empty, forlorn
with its random objects
imperfectly framed
and images held
for a few instants
in unclean glass
reminding me, I cannot
linger there, as there is
so much more
work to do.