(A quiet reflection on the patient, impartial way a window holds two worlds at once.)
A window never goes anywhere,
yet it understands waiting
better than doors do.
It frames the street
with the calm precision
of someone who has learned
not to interfere.
In the morning
it pretends to be nothing at all,
just air with a boundary –
letting the sun take credit
for every bright idea.
By evening
it becomes a quiet mirror,
catching your reflection
as you straighten your collar
or hesitate at the door,
unsure whether to step out
or stay inside your thoughts.
It knows the seasons intimately:
the sideways rain,
the impatient blossoms,
the long, blue‑grey sigh of winter.
A window doesn’t judge.
It keeps both worlds
within reach –
one made of weather,
one made of breath
against the glass.