There was a window—
in it many leaves moved
many moons arose
new poems
rose-colored leaves
eventually falling
in piles of prayers.
Snow fell too
inside the frame
of that window—
museum of white—
while I waited
for something to be lifted—
something like life—
for a path to be cleared
though it was not yet winter—
trees shone (as they do now)
I can attest to much celebration
I can attest to endless wind rustling—
to that great show of light coming through.