Looking Out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTHE WINDOW
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I was standing on the warm side of the glass
last year
as a deer tracked along the fence,
stopping to snatch
a crimson berry
lying beside a jutting root.
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The cold side of the window
wore its winter mask.
A panorama of shivering trees,
frozen in a blind ritual of icy slumber,
waited for a signal breeze
to bloom the first bud.
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This year the snow is less stacked.
A filmy blue curtain touches my face
as I lean against the window frame,
again in honey warmth.
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I watch a squirrel in chilly famine
scrape the barren earth,
not two feet away
from where we buried Harleycat
on August fifteenth.
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He loved to sit on the sill
in sleepy pleasure,
watch a cardinal swoop
to alight on a low branch of the sycamore,
then leap against the glass
with a craving
to make the red feathers his feast.
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from Two Ghosts/ poems
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