The Broken Window

In the quiet, I hear the reminiscent night in

the darkness beyond my broken sill; I can

hear the windy lips bear their lonely song

for the romancing birds and distant dawn.

Still, beyond my blackened window, I hear

the clenching of the ribs on the knotted tree, that

always cracked and cast its withered shape for me.

And in a dimly lit morning prayer, I can feel the world

as though it were still there. But as I reach for the sill

to feel its frame, my hands touch an unbroken pane

and I remember: my window was never broken.