Outside my window on a wall
A man’s not there, not there at all.
But for some moments there he was.
I saw his old man’s chin and jaws.
His silhouette was sketched in lines
Described by overhanging vines.
I saw his windswept brow and mien,
His squint surveyed some distant scene.
And yet he had a pleasant air,
A tangled mane of viney hair.
His profile gave me quite a start.
…and then the wind blew him apart.
But why did he appear to me?
And why then did he cease to be?
Did my mind or the wind make him?
And did I or the wind forsake him?
Might he show himself again?
Might he return with other men?
And did he mean to speak to me?
Who was that man there drawn in vines,
Now disappeared but for these lines?
Short-lived beyond my windowsill,
Though he’s not there I see him still.