From this corner room, seven windows swung out

like doors, each is twelve transparent pages balanced

atop & beside one another. Succulents on a sill,

a water-glass on the desk, & the rose-leaves just beyond

the north window are made one by my gaze,

 

while above each hinged window, more panes

admit upper light & undersides, thousands of leaves.

I watch students stride down the hill. A Pacific wind

from the opened west takes up the hairs of my arm.

A woman, a man & an infant wait for the bus,

 

& the bus arrives. The accordion door folds open.

As the woman steps up, just one shod foot

on the bus, the baby in her arms, her skirt

blowing between & close around her legs clings

as fabric has longed since the cotton hour of its weaving.

 

There will never be enough moments to apprehend

such a subtle breeze nor years enough to greet

that infant. If we sang all the nights & days to come,

the love would be not yet enough told.

But I am that fabric & live for its embrace.