Wind and Window Flower
by Robert Frost
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
A smoldering ember fell slowly to the floor. He watched its elegant fiery descent with little interest.
It was all too familiar. This tree, this house, this cigarette.
This girl.
Another long drag, and he dropped the ashy remains of what had once been a Marlboro,
smudged it into the ground with his foot. Noticed that the others formed a circle around him, just
as it had been before.
Just as it had been before, when he waited outside her house, hoping for a glimpse, basking in
the knowledge that she was there, a few feet away. Then, only bricks and plaster had separated
them. Now it was an impenetrable gulf. Deeper than the Grand Canyon, wider than the Taj
Mahal.
There had been a time before that even, when he had stood here, alone. When he'd first known
her as the Slayer. When he'd gone home with his tail between his legs, full of anger and big
strutting words.
Saying he'd kill her.
So he came to do it. Wait outside her house all night. If she came out, he'd kill her. She hadn't
come outside, that time. If she had, he would have carried out the threat. She hadn't come out,
but he'd seen her.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.
He'd seen her through the window pane. She hadn't noticed him at all, leaning on the sill, staring
out and upwards to the starry sky. The warm light had formed a halo around her head. Like an
angel, almost, above him.
He was beneath her.
It didn't matter now, anyway. For once, this wasn't about her. He wasn't here for her, but for
someone else. Thorns from a long stemmed rose drew blood into his tight closed palm, making it
sticky with red. Swallowing all pride, he picked up a pebble and aimed high, at a certain window.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Spike found himself flat out on the grass. She stood over him, angry. Furious. He tried to speak,
make amends.
"Buffy. I was here because…because…"
Reluctant to tell her the truth, scared she'd laugh or be disgusted, he stalled. It wasn't a good
idea. Stalling gave him time to stare, and all he could see was her. She noted his lingering gaze
and snorted.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
"Oh, I forgot. You're here because you love me. Of course…it's all so clear now. And don't call
me Buffy."
She hit him again, and he let her. Didn't want to fight back. Couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't.
"Except it really isn't. What could you ever know about love? Showing a freaksome and unhealthy
interest in Passions doesn't make you human. It doesn't give you the right to make this,
this…obsession of yours seem good by labeling it love."
Another kick, this time to the stomach. He groaned. She ignored him.
"So just leave. I haven't got time for this. You may not realize it Spike, but the world doesn't
revolve around you."
Buffy ground the rose into the ground with the heel of her boot. Full red petals, torn and stained,
leaving only a thorny stem in the dust. He spoke quietly, with the slightest drop of venom.
"Maybe you should take your own advice. Slayer."
"What?"
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his clothes and looked at her, emotionless.
"You may not realize it, but the world doesn't revolve around you."
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
In her room she heard voices. Stirring from gentle slumber, Dawn crossed over to the window.
She saw Buffy kick him to the ground. Good. He was sick and he was horrible…at least, that was
what she told herself. He hadn't really liked her; she had just been another way to get to Buffy.
At least, that was what she thought.
He got up, and was talking to Buffy, which was strange, because they usually just shouted. She
strained to hear more, and could just make out the words.
"Okay, the world doesn't revolve around me. That so does not explain why you were about to
throw a stone at my window."
"First off, wasn't your window. It was the nibblet's. Second thing, it wasn't a stone. It was a
pebble, to wake her up. I just wanted to ask her something."
"What? Whether she'd let you read my diary?"
"No. Where you buried your mum."
Simple words, softly spoken. Could make a world of difference. He carried on, not for show or
bravado. Not to try and make her like him. He just wanted to tell the truth.
"So I could leave her that rose. It wasn't for you. You made it pretty clear how you felt about me.
And let me tell you, Slayer, the feeling's mutual. You hate me? Well…"
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
"I hate you. And there's nothing more to say."
He walked away, scattering cigarette butts around the velvet green grass. She hung her head,
he'd made her feel small. Ashamed. She noticed the rose, or what was left of it.
Buffy looked despondently at the once pretty flower, and picked up the stem. One of the thorns
broke the skin on her finger. As she watched a drop of blood welled, and mixed with that already
there.
With a sigh she walked slowly towards the door.
There was nothing more to say; yet something whispered her name, made her turn once more.
He had gone from sight, vanished in the night. Only a chill midnight breeze caressed her cheek,
unseen in the darkness.
She shivered and turned away.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
by Robert Frost
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
A smoldering ember fell slowly to the floor. He watched its elegant fiery descent with little interest.
It was all too familiar. This tree, this house, this cigarette.
This girl.
Another long drag, and he dropped the ashy remains of what had once been a Marlboro,
smudged it into the ground with his foot. Noticed that the others formed a circle around him, just
as it had been before.
Just as it had been before, when he waited outside her house, hoping for a glimpse, basking in
the knowledge that she was there, a few feet away. Then, only bricks and plaster had separated
them. Now it was an impenetrable gulf. Deeper than the Grand Canyon, wider than the Taj
Mahal.
There had been a time before that even, when he had stood here, alone. When he'd first known
her as the Slayer. When he'd gone home with his tail between his legs, full of anger and big
strutting words.
Saying he'd kill her.
So he came to do it. Wait outside her house all night. If she came out, he'd kill her. She hadn't
come outside, that time. If she had, he would have carried out the threat. She hadn't come out,
but he'd seen her.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.
He'd seen her through the window pane. She hadn't noticed him at all, leaning on the sill, staring
out and upwards to the starry sky. The warm light had formed a halo around her head. Like an
angel, almost, above him.
He was beneath her.
It didn't matter now, anyway. For once, this wasn't about her. He wasn't here for her, but for
someone else. Thorns from a long stemmed rose drew blood into his tight closed palm, making it
sticky with red. Swallowing all pride, he picked up a pebble and aimed high, at a certain window.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Spike found himself flat out on the grass. She stood over him, angry. Furious. He tried to speak,
make amends.
"Buffy. I was here because…because…"
Reluctant to tell her the truth, scared she'd laugh or be disgusted, he stalled. It wasn't a good
idea. Stalling gave him time to stare, and all he could see was her. She noted his lingering gaze
and snorted.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
"Oh, I forgot. You're here because you love me. Of course…it's all so clear now. And don't call
me Buffy."
She hit him again, and he let her. Didn't want to fight back. Couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't.
"Except it really isn't. What could you ever know about love? Showing a freaksome and unhealthy
interest in Passions doesn't make you human. It doesn't give you the right to make this,
this…obsession of yours seem good by labeling it love."
Another kick, this time to the stomach. He groaned. She ignored him.
"So just leave. I haven't got time for this. You may not realize it Spike, but the world doesn't
revolve around you."
Buffy ground the rose into the ground with the heel of her boot. Full red petals, torn and stained,
leaving only a thorny stem in the dust. He spoke quietly, with the slightest drop of venom.
"Maybe you should take your own advice. Slayer."
"What?"
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his clothes and looked at her, emotionless.
"You may not realize it, but the world doesn't revolve around you."
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
In her room she heard voices. Stirring from gentle slumber, Dawn crossed over to the window.
She saw Buffy kick him to the ground. Good. He was sick and he was horrible…at least, that was
what she told herself. He hadn't really liked her; she had just been another way to get to Buffy.
At least, that was what she thought.
He got up, and was talking to Buffy, which was strange, because they usually just shouted. She
strained to hear more, and could just make out the words.
"Okay, the world doesn't revolve around me. That so does not explain why you were about to
throw a stone at my window."
"First off, wasn't your window. It was the nibblet's. Second thing, it wasn't a stone. It was a
pebble, to wake her up. I just wanted to ask her something."
"What? Whether she'd let you read my diary?"
"No. Where you buried your mum."
Simple words, softly spoken. Could make a world of difference. He carried on, not for show or
bravado. Not to try and make her like him. He just wanted to tell the truth.
"So I could leave her that rose. It wasn't for you. You made it pretty clear how you felt about me.
And let me tell you, Slayer, the feeling's mutual. You hate me? Well…"
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
"I hate you. And there's nothing more to say."
He walked away, scattering cigarette butts around the velvet green grass. She hung her head,
he'd made her feel small. Ashamed. She noticed the rose, or what was left of it.
Buffy looked despondently at the once pretty flower, and picked up the stem. One of the thorns
broke the skin on her finger. As she watched a drop of blood welled, and mixed with that already
there.
With a sigh she walked slowly towards the door.
There was nothing more to say; yet something whispered her name, made her turn once more.
He had gone from sight, vanished in the night. Only a chill midnight breeze caressed her cheek,
unseen in the darkness.
She shivered and turned away.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.