Look through this to the window
behind it (or the door) to the slow
turning of the earth to which we owe
the night and day, to which we owe
the blooming of trees, high and low
temperatures, fog, rain and snow,
the green grass we must mow
and the faint wind that blows.
There’s a depth to it, a space
that allows us to run and to race
along winding roads and to chase
our prey at an ever quickening pace
leading us to be well-fed and to face
the day with time to spare, base
needs met, we can embrace
loved ones and our grace.
On a bench there is a blue
that does not rise from a new
sky, nor lilies, but which debuted
in the eye of an artist, a painter who
longed for a pigment to sigh through
and so it exists, in this deep pew
where we sit waiting to chew
on the next carcass or dew.
There is a depth, we fall
through it, we try to recall
our sanctity and to forestall
the relentless winds that haul
us away, that replaces us all
into this landscape, sprawl
of scenery, color installed
behind pages and walls.