STARING OUT THE WINDOW
In my 77th year,
staring out the window of my soul,
I see snow on the roof
of the house across the street.
I have no idea who lives there
and even less of an idea who lives here --
the place where I get my mail
and friends sometimes visit,
commenting, as they enter,
how good it feels to have arrived.
I see a statue of the Buddha by the window
and Christmas lights above his head.
On the fireplace, stockings are hung with care,
empty for now.
To my right a book of Leonard Cohen's poetry
sits there like a monk
having so much to say, but no need to say it.
In a few days, more people will arrive.
They will have bottles of wine and presents.
We will hug, but not long enough.
I will take their coats and put them on the bed,
then I will light some candles
or maybe I won't,
pausing for a moment
to see if the snow on the roof
of the house across the street
has gotten any deeper.
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