A Window sort of Frame

One day I sat in a wooden frame
That I found in the attic,
And as I thought all stills the same,
I set out to frame some music.

And what trouble did it seem,
To make this fancy true,
That I didn’t think of a likely thing
And think of a window!

So I took a hammer and the frame
And thought of every sound
That never could be heard in dream,
But could be by a window found!

I dedicate this poem to siti (my grandmother) who spends long hours by a window reading the Quran, or watching us children play. I love her greater than life.

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