Low Winter Sun

Oct 29 2015

I begin with windows.

The sash, the frame, the glass.

The small ledge

that catches bugs,

black, scurrying, hunched.

Cobwebs, of gossamer thread,

with tiny jewels of dew

like rainbow pendants.

Because winter's low sun

is unforgiving,

long thin fingers

probing every recess.

Like thumb-screws, an inquisition of light,

extracting dust-bunnies, spatters

neglect.

So now, I stand erect

before floor-to-ceiling glass,

admitting its green-house heat

permitting its clear-eyed view.

The honey-coloured floor

is immaculate,

wood waxed-and-buffed

each mote of dust

eradicated.

My long shadow

is bending up the back wall,

projecting like a giant

astride his world.

I was cleaning some windows today, and figured there must be a poem somewhere in this.

Not done too fastidiously or too often, cleaning can be deeply satisfying. There is the sense of virtue in doing what needs to be done, in doing well. There is the sense of control: one's small universe, brought to order. There is the tangible accomplishment that has a definite end -- something you can actually see, even measure. There is the gratification of manual labour -- tired, in a good way. (Conveniently forgetting to mention, of course, the sense of futility that also accompanies cleaning: that it's an endless cycle, and will shortly need to be done all over. And that for a lot of people -- like mothers, cleaning up after kids -- it's a largely thankless task.)

Once again, a poem that starts in microcosm and close observation. And which I think at its end captures some of this satisfaction: the narrator's small defined place brought under control; disorder subdued. I see a back-lit Ayn Rand-ish figure (notwithstanding that my philosophy is almost diametrically opposite hers) -- hands on hips, head held high.

...Although no doubt with a good deal of poetic license: the picture window is too inaccessible (from the outside) to ever get really clean. And the floor could still use a lot of work!

I'm very pleased the way the short "a" sound (that is, the "a" of "glass") runs through the poem. I was aware of this in the first stanza, and massaged it to work. But for the rest, I wasn't at all aware. Which is interesting, and gratifying: how my ear seems to unconsciously tune-in to the music of language, taking me by the hand and leading me through.