if I write every poem
just looking out the window
they all start to feel
like pictures paintings
two dimensional landscapes
a play of sun and shade
that the wind bends
right and left
warm enough yesterday
to open the sliding door
smell the jasmine
hear the sparrows argue
a distant plane drone out of sight
never alone of course
when I step outside
always the me walking
with my senses
among the trees and grass
the flowers and the moving sky
and the other me
on a stroll through a
morning field inside me