then rise

the sweat on the window
rolls
down the etched pane
of glass,
the glass is fifty years
old.
not as old as I am.
fourteen years
have gone by.
I know who's been
to this window.
who has looked out onto
the same
woods.
has seen the same seasons
change
with time.
I wonder when it's my
turn. I touch
the tears of condensation.
then rise.