Our Lady

You might, if you wanted, step from this window

onto the roof, walk across slates to other windows,

other rooms, or rest on the wooden chair

by the tub of camellias. The wind might be blowing leaves

across your stained boards, and always or sometimes

rain might shine on the panes and the distant trees.

She’ll be out in the city somewhere

but she’ll have left her scarf hanging on a hook.

A bird might pick from crumbs you’d thrown it

and beyond the houses the bells of Our Lady

might be summoning you into the clammy air.