Windows

Windows change with time – no more the hole
under the roofbeam to let out the smoke
that chokes inside, a hazy beam of light
through peaty dimness on the trodden floor
till daylight enters through the open door...

no more the ornate traceries like vines
will line the narrow, formal slits of light
that falls in stripes across the tall cold rooms,
meek as a cloister's silence, passions curbed,
a little inward-looking, undisturbed...

no more the wooden trelliswork, the small
crude diamond panes or bricked-up oblongs, no
more cold thin wrist scraped on the jagged rim,
no snow outside upon the window sill,
no lover knocking on the pane... I will

find but one window, nothing but a stretch
of time that will be filled with scrawls, a blank
that slowly takes on shapes just like the glass
to mirror what is in my heart and show
young hopes and old despair that lie below.