green hill ~white horse ~grazes
I love having a big front window. I can keep an eye on what’s happening on my street, in my flowerbed and yard. I see the mail truck run, the SAHM going to pick her kid up from school. I see a UPS truck pass me by and stop at the neighbor’s. There is an empty lot in front of my house, and then a pasture behind that, so my son and I often to get to watch cattle graze. It sounds silly, but there is something calming about watching cattle graze. Recently my neighbor put horses in his field, and they always inspire me.
I think my front window is a numen. I get so many ideas while looking out that big front window. I have sat on the couch and written several poems while staring out that window at something that has caught my eye. The small window in the kitchen, that I stare out of as I do dishes, also seems to provide me with a lot of inspiration. I will be posting some haiku about frost in the future, and those came to me as I stood staring out the window one cold morning. I don’t know if its nature its self that is so intriguing, or if the simple glass panes hold a spiritual attribute that make those scenes what they are.
Really, I think any window can hold inspiration. Windows are amazing things and I don’t think people praise them enough. Here’s a poem on that thought:
The Only Muntin Poem in the World
by Timothy Walsh
Yes, I’m pretty sure there are no others.
Perhaps in bygone times a carpenter
or master builder tried his hand at one,
but I don’t think so.
The truth is, no one knows what a muntin is
or what to call it when we point at one.
They are, in their way, so perfect—
that wooden framework that partitions off
the smaller panes of glass
in so many of our windows, old and new.
A muntin. That cross-hatch, that hopscotch shape,
that waffle-looking grid we look at,
or look past, but never see.
There is a moral in this somewhere.
I could ask you to cogitate upon
the muntin-like nature of all human understanding—
how we partition off the vast, undifferentiated flux
in order to grasp it—
categorizing, sorting, labeling—
how language segments and pigeonholes
to gain a toehold on immensity….
Strange, isn’t it, how the mind overlays muntins
on everything we see, allowing us to think,
starting up that ever-idling engine of rationality?
Is the mind, in fact, nothing but a vast muntin-work?
Millions of overlapping muntin grids, three dimensional,
muntins within muntins within muntins?
And yet there are still no sonnets on muntins,
no odes, sestinas, pantoums, or villanelles….
The next time you look out the window,
please notice the muntin and ask why
we must have four seasons, twelve months, twenty-four hours…
and why we must have muntins in our windows.