the wooden
frames,
loose on the sill,
fissured glass, hard to pull
up or down.
i miss the bugs
coming in,
the seer of wind.
the feel of cold when
winter arrives.
i miss my hand upon
the pane,
feeling
the weather,
inside
and out. peering down
to the yard
to see you
kneeling at a flower bed.
i miss the broken latches.
the stuck ones,
frozen by paint
and dirt.
for fifty years they worked.
we would be proud
to say the same
about ourselves.
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