A Madwoman at Her Window

Dancing

past my window

suggests an attempt

to convey an idea

though there is none

other than what is.

These leaves, then,

blown by a force

mightier and lacking in mercy at their plight.

No cruelty intended -

their pointless struggle against demise

happens without meaning.

To grow from a promise

a bud begins to blossom,

flesh ripens and matures

this life bursts forth, a celebration

where joy is not considered

but only a process

of living and dying

and inevitable decay

into immeasurable

nothingness.

Why then do I understand

the language of these things?

The yellow rose, its petals striped

with fiery red and gold;

the blast of a frigid shower

from angry clouds

hurled upon my head.

Surely I must be mad

to find comfort and wisdom

in things so lacking intent.

Leave me in the rain, then,

as the downpour strips the flower

of its last few petals.

Tomorrow the sun will rise

and people will forget

all about the madwoman

as easily as they forget

that once they were not here

and soon they won’t be here

and in between they grew and danced

and struggled against the blows,

certain that it mattered.