The Window Pane and I

Seven days of winter rain.
Seems I am the window pane.
Rain-drenched branches weigh the tree,
and my knee is full of pain.

Inner gloom and outer gloom squeeze my heart.
“Time out, make room,” screams my soul.
“Don’t limit me, see how I am truly free,
quite beyond your pane, you see.”

But the talking window pane, replies to this,
“Oh, well, your pain…
self-made, yes, but not in vain.
I’ll be plain, I hope you see,
you created even me.
Countless teardrops fall in me.”

“Yes, dear pane, you’re right,” I shout
and just like that, the sun comes out.
Tree-strung alabaster pearls,
shiny raindrops gleam through swirls of golden dust.

Soon each in turn, and one by one,
squirrels, birds and winter branches,
snow-flecked fields and icy trenches,
even window pane and I
fly and sing and bathe in sun.
Rain and shine, when all is done,
All That Is and I are one.