Awake

 Awake

Those long, narrow windows
on the shabby, dung-colored house
behind yours:
couldn’t they be eyes,
wide with surprise?
And the telephone wire
bent the wrong way,
curved by the wind--
couldn’t that be a giant nose 
almost touching a lip—
that smear of snow
against the bright green grass?

And if the sun suddenly flairs up
so that the window-eyes twinkle--
yes, twinkle!—do you read it as a sign?
Do you put your work aside
for awhile, pull a blanket over
your shoulders, and settle in
to stare at that startled,
smiling face until you, too,
are startled and smiling
and awake?

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