The Window

The Window

C.J. Hannah

Roy, Mother spoke softly,

her back to us as she washed

the supper's dishes. Dad

sat at the round oak table, reading.

Roy, I would so like a window here,

above the sink. It's so dark and no

amount of lighting seems to help.

Ummm, He mused, looking up

as if studying the problem.

Bad time of the year for that.

The first frost'll be here this week.

I looked at the wall wondering what

mother wanted to see out her window...

the peach orchard, now autumn barren,

and a mile away above the orchards,

the book cliffs looming

like monstrous battleships.

In Spring she'd see pink blossoms,

fragrant clouds caught in the branches,

in Summer dark green leaves curling

finger-like 'round the swelling fruit,

and in fall, along the canal,

cottonwoods exploding into a yellow

so bright it hurts the eyes.

Spring eases into summer,

the peaches ripened

from almond size

to that of baseballs.

Dad came in for lunch one day

and stopped, stunned,

just inside the door. A faint cloud of

white dust drifted in the air, and a

smell of wood long hidden from the sun.

Mother stood near the sink, staring sharp eyed

at him, as he stared at

the hole smashed in the wall

above the sink, dripping white chunks

of plaster and laths.

A gentle, warm breeze blew down the canyon

and through the hole

filling the kitchen with

the smell of ripening peaches.

Mother pointed to the ragged hole.

That is where I want the window.

This is one of my very favorite poems. I recited it when I was a Junior from memory, and I'm a little sad to say that I don't still know it by heart. It is a beautiful piece! I'm envious of Hannah's simple elegance and gift of imagery.