There is a certain kind of beauty in unwashed windows,
windows that reach so high I can only get to them
once in a very long time, oh, I still see out
when sun’s angle allows which gives me reason
not to tend to the common task, keeping it
for another day, a day when there is less to do,
a day when more important things have been tended.
But when clarity is diminished as sun shines its eye directly
confusing view, when looking out becomes staying in,
disorients need for accuracy, rests in shapes and shadows
that whisper through, no compulsion for definition,
just a gentle telling of story, a compassionate perspective,
not by smoke or fog, nor snowfall, but years of life
leaving only breath as it passes on conceding spaciousness
between that which I cannot change knowing all remains
secret to my interference until sun presses on
and glare is gone and I see once more that which was obscured.
There is a beauty in not seeing leaving certainty behind.