I am a window–

only a window, hammered into wall,

held between the worlds:

I know the feel of sunshine

and of dusty, closed off rooms.

I am not stained glass,

not a holiday of my own–

just transparency.

But if You’ll take water and soap

and scrub the dirt from my face 

and set me toward the sun, 

I’ll catch the beams

and hand them down 

to cold wood floors.  

And You and I will warm the house,

turn the dusty air to gold,

And–perhaps–

entice the occupants

out-of-doors.