April 8, 2003

Watcher at the Window

I grew up in Kentucky, near the banks of the Ohio River. I moved to California, when I was a young mother.

I have always had a favorite �window with a view�, where I love to gaze out and ruminate on many subjects. My thinking seems to become more clear as I reach out into the distance.

Knowing this much�the poem below should be self explanatory.

I am a watcher at the window. Life is a window where we look out upon an ever changing scene, from the secret place of the soul.

I have known that secret place from birth. And I have gazed at days and nights from many windows. Literal windows. Taking captive snapshots of my life.

I am told that as a baby in my crib, I played for hours looking out upon the street framed by the window in my room, - and was content to look at passers-by and cars, and blowing leaves.

The window I remember best held visions and dreams of all of my life, from child to bride They streamed in upon the rays of a western sun dancing through the trees, resting upon the hills.

In the black and gray of winter, a river ran at the foot of the hills, where my vision stopped.

In the rain soaked spring it was swollen to flood, and riverboats steamed upstream at eye level.

In the night their searchlights felt the riverbanks from side to side to remain in channel. They blasted deep-throated horns into the thick blackness, as I lay awake and wondered at the world outside.

The radiant glory at end of day, a sun slipping slowly away. Then summer mornings damp with the dew, changed to feathery silence of falling snow in my view, - all framed for me to see and hold onto.

Indian summers, crisp and brown; golden leaves, falling to ground with musky odors floating through the open window into my view

Beyond the hills lay �way-out-west� where unknown vast spaces held � what? -I could guess.

I knew nothing of valleys, mountains and plains, so foreign to me thru my window panes.

That window drew me. It beckoned me, - Go! - to the out-western places past the river below.

And my soul flew out, to follow the sun; to catch it- and pass it, before it was gone.

Now on the western shore, I found my favorite place, safe and sound. At home with family close around, I resumed my stance upon different ground, watching at my window.

The years go by. I gaze out at the sky, with thoughts as low and hopes as high as my soul dictates. And I know I�ll be, til the day I die, a Watcher at the Window.

Text � copyright 2003 - 2008 The Homespun Philosopher

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