By Claire  Brown Bower
Date: 28 June 2000

Windowpanes

Morning sky in heavy languish,
maiden moist with aching air
as a broiling roll of canvas,
once alive with passion's care
for what long was daily drama,
now hangs, is simply bare.
What became
of all my cloudy days of dreaming?

Where might my lover tread,
so ever solemnly to roam
while I, now fallen futile
to the honor of nights alone,
gaze out from leaden windowpanes,
only words to make my home.
Who shall come
to ease my blood from sorrow's steaming?
                                  
                            ~ Claire Brown Bower