Inside looking out, outside looking in

Poems about windows

Photo by Khanh Do on Unsplash

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Someone recently posed an introduce-yourself challenge on Substack Notes: “In five words or fewer, what do you write about?” Without stopping to think too much, I replied, “Windows, skies, things with roots.” Imagine my surprise when I did a search of my assembled poem files and discovered that more than a quarter of them make some reference to a window.

Not so surprising, when I think about it. Windows are liminal spaces, between Here and There. And whether you’re looking in or looking out, a window frames a particular scene and set of details … which, given the way I write, means that it frames a potential poem.

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VIEW FROM THE WINDOW IN THE LIBRARY FICTION ROOM                2025


Three empty black-slat patio chairs 
around an empty black-slat patio table, 
centered in an empty courtyard snugged 
against the library’s southern rise out of
the hill it grows from. Near one wall,
another empty patio chair, green plastic,
glancing sideways at the black-slat set;
near another wall a clutch of dusty pots,
old sacks of soil, some jaded succulents;
in beds, amid a froth of weeds, one blazing 
spray of poppies, here and there a slender stem
of yarrow tipped with foam, nasturtiums 
in their cheerful, clumsy jumble, and a young 
and tentative azalea, nearly drowned 
in that green wave of rosemary that curls
so fierce and fragrant toward the afternoon sun.

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                                                                                                                             2025


City life is peering at each others’ windows —
from my kitchen sink, a glimpse of crimson curtains
twitching shut, across the back lot two floors up;
higher, nearer, an upstairs neighbor’s aloe plant, the jar
of colored pencils on her kitchen table. Late at night, 
squinting through bedroom shades when that one house,
third up the block, sets blind-slats in a shimmy
with dance beats. Panes winking, four stories up
or twenty-four, rekindling sunset fire. Signs,
fresh or crisping yellow, campaign-printed
or by hand, and shouting each to each across
the street. December twinkle-lights, their strings
of small brave brightness in the winter dark,
framing visions of bedazzled trees. More visions,
at dusk in any season, just before the blinds
are shut, of lighted rooms and people in them,
sprawled loose on sofas as the TV flickers, 
bouncing with children, leaning over desks, 
living their own and inside lives, the way
they go on doing when the curtains close.

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