Upon the Sill

Upon the sill, she sits curled up with
         her book,
                   a blanket draped across
         her legs,
                   tumbling to the floor,
         her dark locks
                   obscure her face—
she is one with the tale before her
         never to be removed—
                   never to reach farther than
the glass beside which she sits.
Upon the sill, she looks at the life beyond
         as the thunder rolls over the mountain paths and rain waters the earth.
         She is content with her own green fantasy,
Making the world within, the world beyond
                             —her own.
Through rain and snow, sun and moon, she sits pressed
    against that barrier to reality.
         But why does she sit so close to what’s real,
                                         so close
to unknown, undiscovered, existing mysteries great and small?
With each turn of a yellowed page—
         the mystery fades, and she sees it—
                                             fade.
She won’t escape what remains the same
         —only watching, never acting,
                   never acting.
Though the wind, the creatures, the clouds, the seasons
                             pass her by,
                   Upon that sill, she sits beside the glass.