From the window,

I watch little feet,

Slapping wet grass

toe to heel

in rhythm with the humming

of the simple summer’s wind.

Dimpled hands, digging

At the cool damp clay,

Earth and mud softly smearing

Between every finger, filling

the cracks and spaces

that separate each joint.

I stare at the glass

Through the double pane,

As I used to do at the museum.

I would stand and scan

The symmetrical walls,

Impressed with the collection,

Or aging frames, that captured

The art so profoundly.

From where I am now,

The paint is chipping,

The sill worn from washing

mismatch dishes‐

The glass splattered with suds

And corners yellowed

From dirty water,

drained from jars,

Filled with dandelions.

I loosely wipe spots

From where I most often look,

I don’t notice the dust

Or smudgy prints

Except in the morning,

When the sun climbs the hills,

And reminds me of messes

The evening has made.

I pull the curtain,

crooked to cover

A glow from the grimy glare,

Bringing my coffee

close till the steam

rushes toward my cheeks.

I rub the handle

And wait to hear

A rustling from upstairs,

As the day awakes

Night’s restless blanket,

And lifts the silence

That has settled.

Cahla Downs:

As a mother and writer, I often watch life and see the time pass by me, as if they were words streaming into my mind, like pen on paper. My writing is an attempt at etching these moments into history, sharing the intimacy, simplicity, and complexity of humanity. Using my passion as a poet, I want to give something back to this world that has so humbly given me life.