BEYOND THE WINDOWS
Here in this room we share, the future
is mute, will not announce its schedule of
intent. Glass shimmers between us and the
outside, where a chill wind stirs the bare
limbs on budding trees. Open the window
to see the teacup you left on the picnic table
gathering stars all night, now spill its light
into the dawn sky. Hear the robins trill across
the morning: Come join with me, let’s make
a home and raise some more of us.
We trust blue eggs will fall into a sturdy nest,
then crack to free wet feathers and new beaks
gaping for more. Back in this room we share,
the furniture is mute. Ask the bed whose bodies
it will bear, or the dresser what garments will
echo tomorrow in its wooden drawers, and both
will answer you with dust. Beyond our window
other windows open into oceans of dark matter,
dark energy—those riddles we dangle bait for in
a sea whose waves break on our shifting shore.
Here in this room we share, the future
is mute, will not announce its schedule of
intent. Glass shimmers between us and the
outside, where a chill wind stirs the bare
limbs on budding trees. Open the window
to see the teacup you left on the picnic table
gathering stars all night, now spill its light
into the dawn sky. Hear the robins trill across
the morning: Come join with me, let’s make
a home and raise some more of us.
We trust blue eggs will fall into a sturdy nest,
then crack to free wet feathers and new beaks
gaping for more. Back in this room we share,
the furniture is mute. Ask the bed whose bodies
it will bear, or the dresser what garments will
echo tomorrow in its wooden drawers, and both
will answer you with dust. Beyond our window
other windows open into oceans of dark matter,
dark energy—those riddles we dangle bait for in
a sea whose waves break on our shifting shore.
Penny Harter
