Throwing Open the Windows

To throw open the windows is to reveal

the months'-worth of dirt covering the sills.

Am I Mrs. Clean that it is the dirt

   that attracts my notice

rather than the sweet breeze, lilac-scented,

   floating through the screen?

 

Is it my responsibility, this dirt?

My fault that I cannot see the forsythia

   for the fustiness?

The dirt is in my eye.

The air assaults me, raising discord

   and an inharmonious argument:

which came first, the dust or the guilt?

Which will demand my attention first:

the cleaning or the enjoying?

Can you have one without the other?

 

Can you open the windows,

see the dirt,

then walk out the door

   without a backward glance?

After all, the dirt, like the poor,

   is always with us.

 

But spring is fleeting.

Open tulips overnight turn blowsy and lose petals,

lilacs fade and revert to ordinary shrubness.

Delicate breezes become hot,

muggy days loom.

 

The poet already said it:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

 

The dirt can wait.

 

 

Copyright 2014 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com