The windows of this world,
we stand behind or in front
to look in or see out.
When the rain descends
the world becomes distorted.
On a clear undulating canvas
wavering shapes,
colors bleeding into the spectrum.
ghosts of someone we may know.
I think of all the privacy framed by windows,
inviting the known and unknown into our rooms, lives.
I think of all the lives lived without windows at all,
inviting no one inside.
A window can also be a mirror
reflecting a world beyond hungry eyes,
surprised when they see
the bounty before them.
From across the street he is seen
distorted in rainswept windows,
no longer the beggar framed inside his isolation
he is color, he is the spectrum of light.