|
Our windows seem to be trying to tell us something,
But we can't make out exactly what.
We see the light, we feel the light,
But we can't hold the light in our hands
As it brightens and then fades away
While the clouds in the sky form and dissolve.
When the rains come breaking in,
We listen to the raindrops on the glass
And wait for the dark storm to pass.
Through these windows we've seen days come and go,
The midnight sky brightening in the east
And then settling at last into the mysterious west.
We hear things in the distance:
The cry of a baby, traffic out on the highway,
A news helicopter, a television show,
Bits of music in the air down the block,
A rumble of thunder, a jackhammer,
An argument and a church bell.
We know that if we sit here long enough
We will see the grass grow up from under the snow,
The flowers rise and blossom and bloom,
Wither into curled up leaves and stems.
The green leaves slowly turning,
Falling into piles in the yard.
Then the snow will cover everything, again.
We wish we could leave,
But we don't know where to go.
We know there is a whole world out there,
But we can't see it all from here.
And little by little, our time is running out.
We watch our face in the glass
Growing older, growing sadder
While the chances of a lifetime
Pass away and leave us behind.
We wonder if there is anyone else out there
Thinking of us in here
Sitting at this window
With our pen in our hand,
Wondering what we're writing about.
And what will become of all this
After we've gone.
| 
