In Delft
I live on the street where Vermeer lives,
his studio just across from my window. In my window
where all day I sit all day here and I sew.
Over there, one after another
they gaze out his window on the holy light,
their gazes fall surely not on me.
A woman with a pitcher, a man with a globe,
a maid waiting on her mistress writing,
a woman with a lute, a guitar.
Somewhere upstairs in a farther room, a man practices
his viol, his harpsichord, his cittern and hurdy gurdy.
All day they gaze out for the source of the music
they hear descend from no place that they can see.
A woman with a pitcher, a man with a globe,
a maid waiting on her mistress writing,
a woman with a lute, a trumpet, a guitar.
They gaze out the window into the light.
Their gazes fall surely not on me, a woman who
has misplaced her country, who sits all day
by the window and sews in blues. Sews in whites.
My husband said today inside a shop window he saw
a painting of a woman sitting in a window sewing.
And there were her hands there, half drowned in the light.
And there were her hands there, half drowned in the light.
Original Publication – The Moving Force Journal Issue 6 2022