I look out of the narrow window
at the leafless forest that serves as a horizon
for the world that is my grandmother's back yard.
The edges of the trees blur into indistinguishable
grey forms and stand in distorted, twisted shapes
as I gaze into the twilight through warped glass
and fractured panes. The cracks have migrated
north, as though to avoid the molded, paint chipped sill.
As I watch the sun shade the sky mauve and lavender,
the window moans and pops as it settles with the aged house.
The window won't last long. Its weather-scratched glass
shakes with every wind, and even my slight sigh
seems to be too much for it. With each warm breath,
a frosty maze of arctic tendrils etch their way across
the glass only to retreat just as quickly.
I have watched them age together,
the fine lines of my grandmother's face
mirrored in the once smooth planes of the cool glass.
Her breaths come in shudders now, the wind rattling
the panes. The window will have to be replaced
but not today. It still holds, fragile in its frame,
stoic if no longer sturdy.
I watch as my grandmother shuffles into the room
Her cane clicks against the hardwood as she smiles
at nothing. She sways, unsteady, and leans against
the splintered windowsill to gaze at the falling sun.