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.