You have no control
over what you show, no say in where
you were placed, or what size you are.
But you don’t care about these things.
None of us has a voice in matters
of design, so you do what you were made for; and remind me
that that is all

I can do, too. You are fragile
in your frame, yet that doesn’t deter you
from sharing the world with me. I hide
from you when the days are too bright
or the monsters of the night smudge your panes
with their hot, sour breath. Still, you remind me that tomorrow
comes.

Even when the night lights burn out their bulbs,
you draw the dawn through your battered and worn
glass. Then the clouds break into breathless puffs
of smoke and the dark reds and oranges reflected
off of those acrobatic clouds declare
victory to the distant
darkness.

And the world keeps turning.
That is what you show, dear Window.
And you will do so
for the next watcher
to sit at your sill in wonder.
Give them the gifts you gave
me: rest, peace, joy, hope, silence.