Three feet by four feet. Her bed in front directly, affords a view with slight angles, the only window in the room. Unfortunately, Tatata bedridden for fifteen years. Skating accident on her twenty-first birthday on an ice pond in Maine. “It was the way she came down,” all her brother could say. Refuses powered wheelchairs, will not visit the park for a warm sit near a bench, insists on remaining in that bed, in her room, poised in front of the window. Her view varies by a few degrees, depending on whether she slides to one side or the other. And whether the orderly rolled her or did not. Nurse never needs to raise her blinds - Tatata insists on keeping them open, for morning light and sunset, breathes distant stars, knows gliding crescent. She inhales the sun’s slide through seasons. In her room a world map, poems next to her bed, photograph of a young child robed in rough cloth standing on an expansive plain in Ethiopia, and a color shot Big Sur wave crashing, hazy cliffs descending from a lookout. She doesn’t mind any longer: At first she visualized suicide, what it would look like, how she would do it; athletic woman, wounded flower. She despised her room and window, bed and brother. Now she understands perspective, poeticizes her line of sight, heightened appreciation of simple. Many trawling the globe, fishing for themselves, for life understanding, miss the depth of her grasp. Their images among trampled California poppies don’t do, Grand Canyon’s north rim. Her reality a life framed; examines the changing painting; light evolving, defined by movement. The dove she catches in an instant, lands on telephone wire. And wind stirs the three trees in her sight, an oak, maple and large spruce, new, modifying, mutating. And on Day Seventy-One of any given year, possibly, her neighbor adjusts the ancient antenna on his roof. She watches the sleep and growth of years, every second’s canvas different from the previous, imprecise drift. There the neighbor patching his roof with tar: once last year twice already this. A strong gust yesterday knocked at her pane. Filled her blood, and she wrote a song. Rain this summer singular and around nine wet slammed her sash. The golden-orange moon of three in the morning; three-thirty; four-fifteen; light casting on her closet on her quilt on her verse. She sings lyrics captured last night; smiles how the hurried rarely convey. How many patterns in the swift fall of the shed autumn leaf? To know one thing is to know the world, she offers the visitor, and see that! See that? The hornet returns to its nest for another call. Ask her to describe a snowfall. She rests in her room with her window still.