Dear Alexa,
Cool one.
Notes rushed out on way to work:
O weeping window [fun pun on willow], braced against the crisp
young day! March has caprices—now it lifts
upon your face in mist, in beads and drips. [lifts go up, drips go down, so the motion is not working. How about
now it lifts
upon your face in mist, then beads and drips.
Just yesterday, it greeted me with clear
views through your panes and into shining air.
Each morning, all of life seems capsuled here
within your little picture’s latest shifts
to lilting sun or wan, enshrouded lisps
of coldness hesitating on the cusp [fine sound-play throughout the poem]
of spring. And only one thing stays the same:
round every pull of whim, round every claim
of weather—your dilapidated frame! [I wouldn't end with exclamation mark--too 19th century]
I wonder if the turn gives away the ending? Capsuled and framed both say the window holds the world. So, there is an opportunity for one more move, a deepening of the thought. Frame of meaning? What's outside the frame? What about those other windows the eyes? What about language, which frames thought? And so on...
Hope this helps! Tony
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