Poem August 28, 1976 Issue

WINDOW THOUGHTS

Rushworth M. Kidder

Suppose I close the blinds.
The sunlight disappears.
Who suffers—the sun, or I?

"Oh, we can explain," they said.
"The sun was only a fraud
imagined by men to allay their fear of enigma. Or
maybe the sun is dead.
No matter—it can't help you now."

So, in their cellared dark,
in a hovel of theories, grim
illogical mushrooms sprout, and who suffers—the sun, or men?
The sun, impervious
to misconception, shines on.

Suppose I unshutter my mind
to the still morning brilliance. The light
of lucid and limitless Spirit

rinses the casements of thought,
and who loses—the sun and I
or the theorist who, in bright light,

tries to explain why it's dark?
Mind is, and the light of man is;
and that is where logic starts.

Rushworth M. Kidder

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