Window View

Diagonal sun lines
Drip from the window
Onto the floor under
The whitewashed sill.

At quiet times
When clouds roll
Through the muster
I have to kneel

And watch them take
On the lines
While they pass
Over it all.

There is no hate
But sometimes
The floor saddens
From being raw.

The sun’s diagonal kiss
Is enough to make the floor miss
All that stilted warmth
Dripping on the whitewashed sill

But the clouds’ remiss
Is their own bliss
And the sun’s warmth
For them is not silted.