Outside My Window Xvi Poem by Frank Avon

Gray days

- as today is gray -

defy our eyes,
deny sight

insight / foresight / oversight:

at the edges of our consciousness,
fragile and frayed,
our sensitivities and sensibilities,

we have not the strength and energy we need
to avoid the plunge into the abyss

downward / backward / inward,

so we subsist: Gray.

Oh, but, no.
No.

The maple tree up the street
- its leaves that remain -
has turned a color I cannot name.
It's not pink, not orange, not yellow, not red;
its color is unnameable,
but it's the opposite of gray.

Look, look, look, it says. Look.
And suddenly I see.
And there is still the mass of yellow and orange
we call marigolds;
there are the pinks and scarlets and burgundies and yellows
we call chrysanthemums;
there are the huge, droopy leaves of bronze, nearly ebony,
we call elephant ears;
there is one crimson blossom
we call Mr. Lincoln
and one other nearby
we call a giant hibiscus;
there are here & there, up and down the street, outbursts of mauve
we call burning bushes;
there is white tinged with pink, springing up late, but persistent,
we call dahlias;
there is one single remnant of white and yellow
we call the Day's-Eye;
there is a climber near our window, the essence of color unnameable,
we call Joseph's Coat;
and there is the golden splendor on a few fragile stems
we call cosmos.

Look, the maple shouts
and for a few brief seconds
we see
rays of the setting sun
crowning the day,
banishing gray,
ushering us into the Presence
we once called Parousia
(some of us still do) ,

and our eyes rise

upward / outward / forward

beyond the browns
near the ground

beyond the gray
we've called today,

beyond what's still green
and what's everygreen,

beyond our sills,
beyond ourselves,

and we are uplifted
into Vision

immanent
transcendent

a present image
of Shekinah



- until it fade
from our sight

until it raise
us to its height.