Windows

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.

The sun streams in

through a window in the wall

that overlooks the square.

Plants on the windowsill

cast shadows on the floor,

shifting shadows

that change shape

as two becomes four. 

White curtains hang quietly on either side

without a breeze to stir them,

kept at bay by panes of glass

on which the ghosts of yesterday’s raindrops  

mark the passage of time.

---

I think,

deluded,

that I have but to reach out

to touch reality.

---

Nearby

there’s a picture hanging on the wall,

a window

on a world

where time stands still.

There’s a river in the foreground,

motionless,

that reflects the leaden sky.

A pale sun, two o’clock or perhaps four,

illuminates the façade of a house.

A yellow house.

And I think of Vermeer, of Proust,

Wyeth and Hopper,

and of Tabucchi.

---

A window has been opened

on the unknown,

for a window is more

than just an opening

in a wall,

illusory or real.

It is a rift, a rent

permitting light,

the world outside,

the world of our imagination,

to enter.

A window

frames,

reflects,

dictates

what it allows you to see.

A chimerical world

I can only

contemplate,

but that remains forever

out of reach.

It is a window

on the unknown.