Looking out the window
at 9:05 in the morning
the sky is robin and lemon
and carmine, painted by nothing
but my eyes
as they sweep across the
window black plastic
encasing
clear sand
the dots of
the pull-chain
seem disconnected but
they are connected with more
strength than my hand
to my arm as I write
this ode to the window,
I, sitting here, draw my ideas
from the half opened buds of
new flowers green ideas just
peeking out.