Ode to Two Panes

In my room I have a little window

Everyday it greets me

Behind the shade it calls to me

Entices me

Convinces me

to find out what I am unable to know

in my bed

or in my chair

I do not know who made it

I simply have it

It does not really know me

or really care about me

But, even so it waits, patiently,

As dear friends often do

for me to lift the shade

And look.

It is double paned.

A single sheet will not do.

In former days, it was one.

In older days, it was none.

For the isolation by,

and the insolation of

my little window,

I am doubly indebted.

Its one yearning being two,

The illuminating of

What lies inside,

And the informing of

What lies outside.

I am painfully aware

of how unaware I am

that I love my little window

 

But something, with my window, is amiss.

Between the panes, something is growing

Where it should be clear, it is not.

There should be clarity between the panes.

I have always trusted my window.

I never gave the panes a second thought.

It has always been the vacuum between the panes

Which enabled such a pristine view.

When that which my outer pane keeps in check

contacts what my inner pane retains,

a substance foreign

to both panes

begins to materialize highlighting

the impossibility of clarity.

The view is incrementally and systematically impaired, not from without,

But by the exchange between the panes.

It makes no sense talking.

My dear, little window is deaf to my pleadings.

My window is merely the bearer of the panes.

The double pane is here to help me see.

The means of rehabilitation to the pristine view

Lies not with the window

Lies not with the pane

The double pane.

The means lies not.