She looks through the window at the world

This is for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt.



I play the role of shaper of things,

moulder of spirit,

curator of youth,

orderer of my environment,

but in this abundance of quiet,

this place of tremulous peace,

I see myself for what I am,

an insect clinging to the rim of the great cup of space.

I am more and less than the fox in the covert,

the owl that glides on silent wings,

the swallows playing one last swooping game

before the long flight south.

For all my longings, I do not belong,

and cares will always weigh with fear my clumsy tread,

and nothing, no words, no kind thoughts

will stop the fall of yellow leaves,

nor help me hold my place

when the earth spins,

and the winds of winter blow hard.