The Window
By Michael Snyder
The first day I saw the window it beckoned me: “sit here”.
White wooden frame, glass wavy with its age.
As I sat, the view pulled me
into a time past and present.
Write me a poem.
Outside the window the elder Oak tree welcomes
my gaze. Leaves in shades of light and dark green
bouncing in sunlight, waving with a breeze,
swaying with mesmerizing motion.
Dance with me.
Below, the red brick drive recalls a time long gone
as a new BMW, ignoring the STOP sign, drives on.
Students of all ages and nationalities pass by, smiling,
laughing and bustling in the sunlight.
Walk with me.
The quiet images flicker like silent movies of yesterday.
The soundtrack is Silence, the unspoken language.
Leaves dance, cars drive, people walk
in silence. I can hear it whispering:
Listen with me.
I cannot smell the gardenia’s sweet scent, nor
the night blooming jasmine’s fragrance filling the twilight
air, signaling the impending sunset. Light begins
to fade, colors change to red and orange on the leaves.
Savor with me.
Through the looking glass are ladies in Victorian dresses,
men in top hats and coats. Trains in the distance, boats
on the river, horses and carriages on the brick drive.
This window sees it all.
Watch with me.
How many students sat where I now dream?
What memories do they hold? Class is ending,
the sun has set. I now write my poem,
looking through the window as it softly says:
Remember.
