This window holds the promise of what might be.
Above the street, a small glass bowl holds
the transparency of water,
a pot of daffodils, a shaft of leaves,
shadow leaning, cutting into light.
There is a longing for the sun, the certainty
of night and day. A track to walk to the
next place, a field to lie in on the grass.
For now it’s here on polished wood:
A shrine to rain, the way that seasons change,
a slow current to a wild river, that exists
just beyond the concrete, the wall of clumped trees.
Somewhere elemental to begin,
to touch the ground and the good earth,
underneath an uncurtained moon.
The particles we come from
and where we will return:
If you believe you might be bird skeleton,
the silk of feather, the grit at the heart of snow,
when you dream across that border.
The Window is taken from the CD, Fen Song: A Ballad of the Fen.