seasons turn again

as kitchen window spattered with dried water spots

tries shyly to pretend

just french lace curtains keeping closed

turning to dear husband once again I ask

when do we finally get the window-washer-healer

for our blinded

second story view

in morning

pouring maple syrup coffee

i gaze at orange-gold glory leaves

waving

one surprising bold hello

via husband’s far-reachin’ cross-the-sink efforts

through glistening pane

one shock-discovery

radiates the question

what         have      I      endured

and     how     long,    have     I     endured     it

‘til the glorious bright vision breaks through:

                                       take that shammy to your soul               Dona Palmer