Dirty Windows

I haven’t washed my apartment windows in years.
Each March as the light begins to swell against the pane
I notice the layers of dirt and dust
put down by the persistent years—
tiny, scalloped fossils rained by the winter sky.
But now that the sun insists on its way,
I’ve been thinking again how I should employ
squeegee, bucket and sponge.
Why do I procrastinate? Cleaning is simple work.
Is it the long walk to the basement,
the opening of bolted door after bolted door
to the place I keep possessions long
unwanted or unused?
Or is the washing itself?
How at first the water surrounds the fisted hand,
then chills as it pulls itself away,
the wind doing its part too on the glistening skin.
What’s my excuse?
Maybe the shadows will testify
how light can weigh against the glass
as rising water threatens air,
radiance pushing shadows into corners
until sun overflows the room.
Compromise would be easier.
I can see well enough through the cloudy glass.
Maybe I’ll wait another year,
until my house cries out for light,
or the night deepens under my eyes
and the moon stabs at my unrepentant heart,
throwing down light without mercy
into darkness that will not surrender.


—Eric Nelson