Visions

This morning
I watch my scarlet capped
neighbor as he winterizes his house.
Back and forth he marches
taking in lawn furniture,
sealing windows,
stacking wood.

I'm sorting computer
disks--back up
to years of timed-writing.

I stop to read another
morning's observation
written years ago.


THE MARK ON THE WALL

The mark on the glass pane...
fascinates her...
A thing of beauty...
It’s the first sight her eyes seek
in the morning.
Some days it’s a hill,
a small mounded shape.
Other days it has defined features.
She imagines it’s a Madonna--
a Virgin she could pray to.

But if she waits too long
the morning grows warmer
and the Madonna begins to disappear;
it smears into indistinguishable droplets
leaving a dirty windowpane...
unanswered prayers.

Her husband talks about improved insulation,
weatherproofing. But she holds back,
pleads the unnecessary expense,
the mess created
by tearing out a wall.

She never finds words to explain
the disappearing Madonna--her attachment
to such a fragile ethereal vision.

The days are growing colder;
the window is more often frosted,
crackling in the pre-November chill.

Today the virgin
has been driven off
by a cold wind.

It must be time
to find another spot
on the wall,
a sun shadow
or a leaf pattern,
a new image to reflect
the inner need
to manifest a vision.

Time to put away the disk.
The busy neighbor has ceased
his endless toil.

I'll weave in the ends
of warm wool socks and
mail them to grand children
in need of boot socks.

And seek another vision.