Searching the dark corners, you find them,
old windows piled one on the other,
once bearers of light, now hidden away
in a commercial museum, each with a price tag.
There is a sadness in you, thinking
about the cost of light, and how much is lost
simply because so many are not willing
But you are made of stranger stuff.
You pull the window at the end of the aisle,
tall and bright with color. One more window
for your glass house,
the place you live
with its mix of windows, rescues like yourself.
mongrel light, and always in search
About this poem.
Mornings are dark. Light takes work. The price to pay. And worth every effort. If you have ever lived in the dark places, you know.
The picture was taken in Kennebunkport, Maine, in a store that sells architectural antiques.