The Words Sat on a Windowsill

The words sat on a windowsill
And jeered at the passersby below.
The wrinkled stones of the sad, dusty house
Basked in the weak pale glow
Of luminous clouds of adjectives.
Do I dare to go outside?
Is my jacket warm enough,
Will the children want to play with me in the park,
With its green lawns of metaphors?
Shall I lead a troupe of scouts?
This was the question mark from the steam
Of a cup of Turkish coffee
That a pale hand held
And the pale green pennants fluttered in the blustering breeze
And high overhead flocks of small birds,
Black verbs,
Rowed across the sky,
And the Persian carpets in the cluttered home
Stained the atmosphere
With their golden and scarlet dreams.
And the children played
And the tree leaves shivered
The fire-spark notes
Of their invisible tunes.


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