on a man at his window

There is a window, unpeculiar, framed
by a dingy white wall. With seeded glass
being both imperfect and unique. Aged
as the eyes that peer through it, enchanted.

There is a soft pale linen stretched in part
over the window; anchored, yet willing
to take flight in the morning's breeze. Take
flight as the man's gaze- effortless, weightless.

There is a table, worn from the gathering
and sharing of countless meals. The counted
joys; all but gone, all but a chair to sit.
To be fully present, yet fully lost.

There is this man, unpeculiar as his
window, his portal, remembrance of place.
Being designed for place and place designed
for him; at home, in his gaze, in his chair.