This poet provided a window to the American soul

As I sit here at my keyboard in an eerily quiet newsroom, there are two things on my mind: windows and poets.

Three windows and one poet, to be exact.

The first window is located in Lake Ariel. It’s on the second floor of my grandparents’ farmhouse.

I’ve looked through that window many times since childhood, facing out on what was once the pasture and apple orchard.

This particular window lets sunlight into the old master bedroom.

For well over a century, the circle of life has played out here. Children opened their eyes for the very first time on the big old bed.

Decades later, those children… now tired old men and women… have sunk down on that same bed and closed their eyes for the final time.

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