Written by Window Light.

On Woman Writing a Letter

by Johannes Vermeer, circa 1670.

 This momentary world
is washed pure
of timeless savageries.
The slanted beam draws
your pen forward,
as you, bent over verse,
bow to this oracular light
and to words' random rhythm.
But your maid is her own muse,
moored in the flow of time.
Her radiant gibbous moon
looks to dangers far past
the harbored masts of Rotterdam,
or the glistening fields around Delft.
Her serenity as to crimes
done to her, or to her family,
or as witness to the taint of empire,
or to household scandals concealed
behind that looming tapestry,
or some such secret makes her
powerful, wise and kind.
Her dark form erect and vigilant
is the cloaking lens
for your orb of internal focus.
All depends on her confidence--
her watchfulness,
her placing your poem
into the hands of your lover,
her sealed lips, her prudence.
The picture says you are a servant
To how you feel in this moment
And your maid is time's patient mistress.