too small to be a door
the window was weeds because that’s what you saw. the window was a ship counting souls.
the window sent them on their way, north or south, obvious enough.
although some walked on into the east. west being reserved for falling gulls. the window each day kept some of the sun for itself. of the moon, it gave everything.
the window is a plate for spiders who are spent. the window keeps no book of dates, yet soup is hot, poured into a bowl just when it’s due, ready to be sipped. here, rest your feet. windows are the last pocket you’ll ever need.
windows are the space between walls. try calling them by names of your ancestors. dead is not exactly what you think it means.
windows come home Sunday eves.
neil reid © september 2013