Window

Window,

not to the soul, the house.
Set in a wall of wood, not cells.
Looking, not gazing at the hour's snow.
Only three have been counted, names
for them, was not thought of
and the stone is bare.

Hunting season is done and the deer
learn through hunger to trust us humans.
How simple to have the memory,
to be short as a season.

A season of the miracle birth,
coming in a week. Holy night for some,
another night for the rest.

Aren't we all waiting
for a symbol to prove the words.

Now I only wish for snow
sealing this week of the first winter day.
It would seem right, to ask for that.
It is a simple act,