The Woman in the Window

The Woman in the Window

She watches from the upper pane

when nightfall slips across the lane

a shawl drawn tight, a tilted head

they say she mourns, though no one’s dead

No name remains upon the door

the number flaked, the tiles no more

but light still burns from time to time

a yellow glow, a bell’s faint chime

The postman swore he heard her hum

a lullaby, then silence come

and once, a child went up to play

but turned and screamed, then ran away

She doesn’t move, or speak, or blink

just stares beyond the garden sink

as if she waits for someone still

to climb the path, to break her will

A fire once, or so they claim

but no one’s sure who lit the flame

some say she walks, when the air turns cold

her hands too white, her shoes too old

Don’t wave to her, she won’t wave back

she’s part of brick, and dust, and black

the woman framed in window glass

still waiting for her life to pass