A window

Glass is made so well now,

it’s hard to see if the tree is inside or out.

Watching the limbs sway, I can almost feel

the breeze as it pushes autumn forward.

.

Today I read a mid-century poet 

happily blinded by the face of his America, 

his city streets. I imagine his billboards  

tame with pinched and pearled women. 

.

I can’t claim a time as mine and

my poetry has little form, except secretly.

My sadness is from another era 

and my hope is eternal and stubborn. 

.

I love to watch fog through my window

as it caresses rolling hills, crawling streams. 

When I look at people, I see fog 

in expressions, wishing for quiet trees. 

.

It’s hard to tell if history or imagining

rules me. I keep looking back but sometimes 

it’s not a place I’ve been but it informs me

just as where I think I’m going tomorrow. 

.

I park near a hole in chain link most days,

the tear framing a mess of alleys and spires

in a little cluttered town with a history 

of floods and teachers and a smidge of art.