Window On The World

Our little lighthouse lies
high up a canyoned hill
between two empty skies.
Above, below, they fill

our big bay window's field
of view, our wedge of world.
Their burning blue's annealed
with swaying pines, a swirl

of cooling hues. Across
bright space, the pulsing stars
of passing planes. The gloss
of spreading cities far

below. Beyond, blue-green,
the sparkle of the sea.
Above it, barely seen,
puffed clouds scud by. But we

stand still. Our window stays
unmoved through shifting light,
to hold the sun by day
and all the stars at night.