Today I looked out the window of our study

at the hemlock weighted soggy

by dollops of snow,

and thought:

this could be any window,

in any place

at any time

and I wouldn’t know the difference.

But I didn’t like the taste of that.

Sure, something about this window,

and the view from it,

lifts it into itself like a whipped cream,

for example, I realized I rented it,

and that I was the one who was looking through it,

sort of checking its density,

but sometimes the everyday isn’t enough,

I mean, sometimes I’m the window,

sometimes, what rises into the air,

after I take away the everyday measures I add

in order to know everything’s been done,

is me.