Outside the window, a portrait alive
Becomes the view of that morning winter.
Not quite the tundra because it may thrive,
But may too stress when under heat’s splinter.
The clouds reflect the coming of the sun,
Orange, red, and gray rays play on this ground.
The sight of which has power which can stun,
A man who has seen such power profound.
Behind this window simple people rest
Who know the sights and sounds of this, their land.
They strive and hope that they might be such blessed
With sights of fields that remain to be grand.
What luck, what fortune, must these people know
To have such beauty, outside their window?
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