A window on the world
breaks through our dining room:
a rectangle of light outshining
the white wall. But look,
and you will see branches
stretched darkly over the sky.
The seasons intrude on even
the purest light, keeping reminders
at the corner of the eye.
I have plans to paint the light
red, rose, and violet this year.
Our backyard will dust itself
with a wide expanse of color:
yellow shooting up to mingle
with cones of orange-filled air,
green hanging heavily to fill
the worldly void. A walk through the garden
will be a walk through the other side
of the window, the overhung dark branches
occluding a borderless white.
And when the light of daybreak
breaks into my old sleep
I will remember the tall and rose-shot
lisianthus, like an emotion lived out
in an earlier age, before the bordered window
of white overcomes it, and I am caught floundering
in and out of windowed worlds.
I have been writing fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction for 40 years. My book publications include three works of fiction and three of poetry, most recently Calling the Names (poetry) and Ghost Tracks (stories about Pittsburgh, where I grew up). My work has also appeared widely in literary magazines around the U.S. and abroad. I am also a painter, and work as a medical illustrator at Yale University. Please see marksabawriter.com.