The Rattling Window

I)

still standing firm in wind,

now and then flailing about

between the chasm of night

and dawn. Sometimes

illuminated briefly by the eternal

light of wounded moon. Sometimes,

perished by its own shadow of longing.

I give it my stammer and silence,

I give it my abandon of tomorrow.

I give its dead bones my discovery

of time. Its rattle sharpens.

The residue of my shiver

overpowers its will to remain

forever open to the sobbing

of an everlasting rain,

choir of crickets from the far woods,

summer of locusts, last bloom

of ghost lilacs.

clinging on

II)

Purple

inundation is still incomplete.

Crimson air breaking in

to scrape against film of dry frost.

Plain glistening in its wake.

No appetite for the shimmer of life.

Then the first touch of light

on the hand. Slow sun, without

purpose. Frigid morning, again.

III)

It's winter now. The window is open,

inhaling white poppy of snow

crumbling into bare existence

hoarding its nothings

under immense weight

of its own exposed openness

its own silence,

a quiet seed

it could never

supress