the old windows

I like
the old windows,
the wood, the glass panes.
the cold
wetness when you press
a hand against
them.
I like the songs they
sing
when the wind
persists
throughout the night.
I like the way they stick,
the way
you have strike
them with a fist and
muscle them upward.
I like the old
windows.
the webs and skeletons
of things
that flew
between the screens
and died. the webs
of time.
clasps they don't quite
lock
anymore.
I like the old wooden
windows,
but will I miss them,
no.