Through the Bottom Window

Through the Bottom Window

Through the bottom window,
our garden had dew from stars,
and a pole of light that was a parcel -
as an arm, it stood to touch unmoving skies.

Half in the earth’s atmosphere, half in the cold outer region
a bird with wings like fans sped towards -
in awe or anger it saw the light with prominence.
To puncture through or lay obeisance,
it could not decide -
it saw, and watched.

And the light that gave all its birth
smiled like a mother’s stillness.

Feet of a sprout and crest of a crown,
the brilliance had dissipated -
inside the outline of the remembered shape
the particles of silence -
and harboring outside breach,
a sanction from the creator of forms.