Window, March 5
Oh, weeping window, braced against the crisp
Young day! March has caprices—now, it lifts
Upon your face in mist, in beads and drips.
These mornings, I arise not knowing which
Will greet me—scenes of shrouded depths, or clear
Views outward through your panes to yellow air.
Each mood-scape has a strong, persuasive grip,
As if life's truths were all embodied there—
The lilts of sun, but also subtle lisps
Of coldness hesitating on the cusp
Of spring. And yet one feature stays the same:
Round every pull of whim, round every claim
Of weather, window, lies your steady frame!