Always the Light

It is always the windows I am drawn to.
The light. The small things we leave on the sill
like offerings. Like art.

The windows. A view that tells you almost enough.
What is there, but not quite all the weather.
Is it warm? Is it cold? Is the air heavy with humidity?

The windows. A shrine to what is valued,
what is seen as beauty. The practical. The sublime.
or at times, rare but at times, nothing.

But in the end, it is the light. Leaking in
to your own dark spaces. A symbol. A reality,
sorely needed, always found. By the window.

About this poem

Like many people, I have a little shrine of beauty in the window over my kitchen sink, There is an ornate iron cross, some small cobalt blue medicine bottles, A small oval dish to hold rings when I wash dishes. As I fixed coffee this morning before heading to the last diner standing, I took a moment to take it in. I never tire of looking at it.

My wife and I often travel to visit grand old houses from the Gilded Age. There are a lot of them up here in New England. Look over my pictures from any of those trips and you will always find images of windows, and what is in them. Time and time again I am drawn to the light. The items in the window, often prosaic and simple, are made extraordinary by the light.

It is the same with people, love and faith. The more you know, the more magical they become. It is always the light.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom