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.