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.