Every one of them
picture windows, no matter the size.
The old cedarwood cabin features portraits
family portraits often, redwoods and pines
with suns that set or rise in warm toned palettes
splashed viridescent, berry red and evergreen.
The frames hang a little crooked
broken on one edge, let us say rustic
in a wabi-sabi kind of way. And bleached
that weather-beaten silver grey
the colour of aged cedar and timber wolves
– they too feature, coming in to view
with the last rays of summer days
or sneaking some shelter in the rough den
scratched out below.
And all through the seasons
always unpredictably, a solitary figure arrives.
At her desk in the window, the very picture
of a poet, framed with far-off gaze
ruminating on sunsets and trees.
An ekphrastic prompted by The Sunday Muse #137
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