The side of the home next door juts out just a little,
sets the perspective, the composition as grand
as any Edward Hopper image.
Liquidambars, planted in nineteen forty-six, stand
like columns down the sides of the street, bare branched
now, their long threaded rise, four stories high.
Yards of the homes on the cross street face me.
As I look out my window, its frame
becomes the frame of the canvas I see.
Sometimes, nothing is moving, not a leaf or a bird,
just the trees, bare and green, silent streets, older
homes, a background of sky showing through.
Time has stopped, as it does in a painting.
It seems as though what I’m looking at
is in the past as well as the present.
What is it that so captures the eye,
holds it there for more than a moment,
makes the heart smile or want to cry.