Poetry

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The Window
By: Kimber Kieschnick


There once was a window in the upstairs room,
With a wonderful story to tell.
But since windows can’t write or speak to us,
Perhaps I can tell it as well.

Inside the four walls of the window’s room,
There was born a baby girl.
She’d lie in her crib by the window each day,
Her eyes seeing the color of the world.

In the mornings she’d see the colors of the sun,
Yellow, orange, and red.
In the evenings she’d see purples and blues,
And black, like the hairs of her head.

As the little girl grew the window was her friend,
Showing the magic of spring.
Flowers in bloom, dew on the grass,
And even the sparrow’s wings.

She would go outside to play with her friends,
Together new things they would see.
But never far from her mind, in her upstairs room,
At the window she wanted to be.

As a teen she would sit on the window sill,
Confusion filling her heart.
But the window never laughed at the tears that fell,
Landed and smashed apart.

On the brink of adulthood through the window she’d stare,
At the beautiful world beyond.
“Why is my life such a wreck?” she would ask,
“Why are my hands in a bond?”

Then one night a book she brought to the window,
Opened it and began to read.
She learned that Jesus died for her,
And that she only had to believe.

So at the foot of the window,
With her head resting on the sill,
She asked Jesus to be Lord of her life,
Her heart she asked Him to fill.

With new eyes she saw, as she raised her head,
The coming of a new day.
“This is my beginning.” She thought,
“And bright is the way.”

The window witnessed the little girl’s life,
Was a part of each passing year.
It kept all her secrets, reflected her dreams,
And soaked up every tear.

The end of her life eventually came,
And the window said good-bye.
And now it’s still in the upstairs room,
A mirror of her life.

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