The Window

Yesterday I read a peom that was written by a long time family friend and I was immediately inspired by it visually. Then, for whatever reason, I didn't draw an illustation for it, but instead illustrated it with another poem.
The original poem was written by Tim Blair, and can be found here.


The Window
(For T)

At the country farmhouse of my youth
There was a window nestled in the gable
And to the dusty attic I would climb
To view the tree that grew beside the stable.

The noble oak had always stood for truth;
For when my father’s father bought this land
Its tempered roots had long been steeped in time
And so for age and honor it would stand.

The farm was thus established by the tree,
Foundations laid around the roots and leaves.
The tree would shade the house’s Western face
And greet the window underneath the eaves.

My father’s father often came to see
The view from up among the branch’s reach.
This attic window came to be a place
For him to learn and for the tree to teach.

And as the leaves turned gold, and back to green
Old age and certain wisdom came with time.
And soon he kept a cotton cloth upstairs
to rid his view of country dust and grime.

Throughout the years retreat became routine,
Routine became tradition passed to kin.
The faithful cloth was given to his heir,
Who, soon enough, would pass it down again.

So in this way I learned to love the tree
And grew up gazing through a dingy pane
Because I wiped the window with the cotton
but never questioned why the filth remained.

Then came the day that I began to see
The dirty cloth itself hindered my view.
So with the vision lost but not forgotten
I thanked my father, and his father too
Then slid the window open and crawled through.