The window

Looking out the window, a postcard

– the dogs on the patio, resting –

– the steep downward slope of the street –

– the lake sitting in the caldera

spangling in the morning bright –

– peeking above the lip of the volcanoes

banks of clouds and ash plumes –

even this is a harbinger of life.

One can discern the vibrant lanchas

cargoing the commuters across

– arrows on the still waters –

the trees around unmoving almost

yet the wind surely flutters by

– the birds hardly beat their wings.

The window isn’t quite clean

– though Maria did them all yesterday

and she’s a pretty good cleaner –

for the ash never takes long to settle.

When the wind blows over the lake

the window groans, the joints creak

and let the rain in when it’s lashing down. 

At night the breeze whistles through

– even as I caulked it twice already.

In an hour or so when the city is bustling

I’ll hear every passing conversation

every distant motorcycle engine

– as if the window weren’t there –

the birds chirping as if sitting on my lap

– not much of a window, I know –

yet every day before work I look out

and it’s the same postcard I like

– on rainy days it cools my forehead –

– on warm days it turns the kitchen table

in the perfect sleeping spot for the cat

– whose bowl clinked on the tiles

like the Fuego on a bad day.

In that same spot yesterday sat

the puzzle of you I had just finished

– when I finally found the truth out –

heartbroken yet unable to look away

– missing pieces didn’t matter anymore –

for when I showed you, you knew, and cried.

Today I wish all the world’s Fuegos would

all go at once so we could be done with it.