The Watcher

The tower hovering outside my window
Is not a reflection of my soul;
I must accept that.
Neither are the leafy shards
On the pavement across the street.

Instead, I reflect upon song
And psalm;
The rich and the richer,
The poor and the poorer,
Each man to himself.

But my soul is not there.
My dove does not dwell on
Such things;
It hovers, crossing barriers
Existing and non-existing alike
That divide us and penetrate us.

My soul is hidden; yet it is
Right there. I often
Wonder about such things,
Watching, reflecting on that
Tower over there, its windows
Mirroring my scant humanity.