Through The Windows Of Our Life's House Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I lie all day in bed and think that maybe it is over,
That a beautiful storm will never pass:
Alma, I will stop drinking for you, and I will write my poetry
For you sober,
But I will no longer describe to the emptiest rooms what
You choose to do-
And I only put your name into my poems, Alma, hoping that
You will find them:
I put your name into my poems as if it were a lighthouse
And I was its drowning sailor:
I just want your body breathing its soul into my rooms, filling up
My needing tankards,
For your eyes to brush across the walls like a painter’s brooms:
For your soft wishes to linger through the consequences
Of so many afternoons
Until you are a grandmother, Alma: and I can sit beside you
And watch your body’s zoetrope, spinning like the zenith of
Undeserved amusement,
And when we are underneath the unending palm trees, so tall and
Fine,
My travels will flutter the sweet distance to your body,
And the joy I felt would play with our children and theirs as well,
Cloistered like golden butterflies,
Laughing like the sunlight that echoes and swirls through the windows
Of our life’s house.