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.
