Yellow curtains at my windows
change my point of view.
They've become for me a focal point
of what I have to do.
Household chores and choices
that take me away from my pen.
I see the yellow curtains drooping
and know I must wash them again.
I can't afford a maid to clean
although I wish I could.
I'd tell her to change those curtains
even though I know I should.
And while she cleaned the house
then I could sit and write.
I'd not have to focus on yellow curtains
and feel guilty at their sight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem