For Amy Willmann
Welcome the bright blaze of evening
when lights switch on in rooms
facing streets we tread each day.
We barely notice the striped cat
staring from a windowsill,
dinner smells carried on the wind,
the widow’s illuminated face
in the kitchen window as
she washes her supper dishes,
one plate, one bowl, one cup—
her grin while she sings
to herself. A tune from her girlhood.
Her head, tilted toward the stars.
You think of your grandmother—
the flowered teacup and saucer
you were given, after she died
while you were holding her hand
in the blinding white hospital room.
There is nothing you value
more than this chipped cup,
gold rimmed and swirling with roses,
this heirloom you suddenly
want to hold close to your heart
because of the stranger you glimpsed
through a window, washing dishes,
bathed in light like a painting
by Vermeer, who celebrated
ordinary moments, blessing
and preserving the mundane
forever. The world is a lonely place
until we consider the neighbor
we have noticed, but never spoken to—
each one, singing their own tune.
