Poem by Dan Stone
Compared to most
glass screens we know,
windows don’t do much.
They don’t light up, flash on
or unlock at our touch
or when we show our face.
Don’t glow in the dark.
Don’t tell us what to do
next and, not being mobile,
can’t get us someplace else,
can’t tell us what turns
to take from here to there.
They don’t talk back.
A rare thing these days.
There’s something noble
about surfaces that wait,
that only reflect,
that just stand by.
Events. Perspectives.
Wonders. Even miracles
might congregate
on the other side
but never make
their presence known,
never stake a claim
on our time or our attention
not even when pigs fly.
Only dogs may hear
a high-pitched convention
through the thick pane
that never asks for more
than the intention
to observe, perceive
with our uplifted eyes,
put down our book,
our tools, instruments
devices and distractions,
our fast inventions
and the batteries they drain
to make us think
that portability somehow
sets us free.
What an opportunity,
what a dimly
unappreciated gift--
the miracles hovering
humming just outside
as windows show
but purposefully refuse
to tell us what we’ve missed.
Instead they wait
for our approach,
our rediscovering
of this transparent
truth that what opens,
honors, elevates us
isn’t what we’re doing
but who were being,
isn’t where we’re looking
but what we’re seeing.
Compared to most
glass screens we know,
windows don’t do much.
They don’t light up, flash on
or unlock at our touch
or when we show our face.
Don’t glow in the dark.
Don’t tell us what to do
next and, not being mobile,
can’t get us someplace else,
can’t tell us what turns
to take from here to there.
They don’t talk back.
A rare thing these days.
There’s something noble
about surfaces that wait,
that only reflect,
that just stand by.
Events. Perspectives.
Wonders. Even miracles
might congregate
on the other side
but never make
their presence known,
never stake a claim
on our time or our attention
not even when pigs fly.
Only dogs may hear
a high-pitched convention
through the thick pane
that never asks for more
than the intention
to observe, perceive
with our uplifted eyes,
put down our book,
our tools, instruments
devices and distractions,
our fast inventions
and the batteries they drain
to make us think
that portability somehow
sets us free.
What an opportunity,
what a dimly
unappreciated gift--
the miracles hovering
humming just outside
as windows show
but purposefully refuse
to tell us what we’ve missed.
Instead they wait
for our approach,
our rediscovering
of this transparent
truth that what opens,
honors, elevates us
isn’t what we’re doing
but who were being,
isn’t where we’re looking
but what we’re seeing.