Morning at the Window
Quick as the pirouettes of weathervanes
on rooftops where the shingles quiver
one by one into a startled trembling
with a clatter to the pipes,
this sudden gust in past the open glass repairs,
caught in a dim, delicious turning
out above the wave of branches
where the sunlight wraps the leaves.
And all the world is spread outside
like wondrous fabrics draped on poles
behind some merchant brimmed with tales
of minarets and gauze,
unwitting passengers aboard his craft,
ensnared before we drowse our paths away:
the grumbling nurse, the young astonished girl,
turned by the shoulder back.
A flash of scimitars across the air,
a pointed glance, a gleam of talons
poised to strike - his voice goes on;
and suddenly the cloths
are spun to agelessness before our eyes:
we feel our fingers reach and run
like eager spiders down the weave;
and with no less suprise than of ourselves - we buy.
So morning comes, a sparrow-startled
rapture whirling in the trees
like autumn bursting on the roofs
in wind and sudden rain,
caught up like trees entangled in the rush,
withdrawing leaf by leaf into the air
from an ecstasy of fumbling light, this heart's kite
spiralling, streaming, rising, brilliant.