Washing Windows with My Husband
You on the outside, the hard side,
Your ladder against the house leaning,
And I on the inside, the safe side,
Together the same window are cleaning.
The dirty film that you spray and wipe
Is not the same as mine,
For each window in this small still house
Bears two kinds of grime.
Yours on the outside comes from the yard,
And the trees, and the windswept street,
While mine results from meals prepared,
And the warmth of our central heat.
So we spray and wipe, each on a side
Till rag and window squeak,
Then standing back to survey our work,
Are dismayed by an overlooked streak.
This flaw which mars the now clean glass
Is it on your side or mine?
It really doesn’t matter, Love, we
Will both spray again and shine.
And now it gleams pristinely bright,
As though no glass were there.
And every window, inside and out,
Receives the selfsame care.
While working on this irksome task,
A thought occurs to me.
That in a way, this job portrays
Our life as it should be.
You on the outside, the hard side;
Up against the world and its grime.
Working and struggling and striving,
So that our bright windows may shine.
And I on the inside, the safe side,
Keeping warmth and comfort there.
Yet sometimes when trying our hardest,
That flaw appears somewhere.
Is it on your side or my side, my Darling?
Does it matter who’s wrong or who’s right?
We’ll rub and we’ll scrub and we’ll polish,
And together we’ll let in God’s light.