window pain

They replaced a front window yesterday.
The old one leaked cold in winter
hot in summer.
The glass wore a patina
indelible as cataracts;
paint flecked like dandruff
onto the windowsill.
But the death knell
had been the rasp of my fingers
on the weathered spongy wood.

As they pried and chiseled,
a spring breeze
wafted the perfume of old cedar
through the house
one last time.

The new window will not leak
winter or summer;
The glass is clear is filtered air
no paint flecks anything
no wood will weather.

So heat will stay in its place,
and if I play that trick of the eye
I can see a real window in its place,
one that peals and leaks and grays over
the way the long-ago carpenter
explained to my grandfather:
She’ll be here when we’re long gone.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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