These thoughts have been reoccurring in my mind:

Window, window, window...

Bank window stretches down
to the floor--
down to the ground
where the snow outside
presses cold against the
glass--against the glass
where my toes
crouch close behind
in snug winter boots.
(Passerby so close,
I pull my nose
from the glass
and stand erect
and feign composure.)

Cottage window
at the cross-street,
yellowy bright against
the grey-blue evening.
A bit of furniture
suggests a life, a home,
a moment--pure--
filtered--removed by
the four-paned glass.

Car window
brings such sights--
such hills and
mountains and fields
and lakes--
inviting behind the
thick glare of glass.

How bitterly cold
this snowy outside
the bank glass.
How dull the life
behind the bright window.
How exhausting the climb,
how chilly the swim
in this great other side
of the world.
--Anne Davis