Thank you for letting me read your sonnet.
It gives me to think, but leads me to no
conclusions. Whether that's good or bad,
I don't know.

I wonder, window, what you're hiding,
Where the roots of branches lead,
Ivy creeping up the siding,
Couldn't tell me what I need.

Sometime ivy leaves will sprout.
Covering my window's view.
Then I'll know what birds are out,
If the breeze I see's a clue.

Still I'm anxious, still I'm dreaming,
Won't look where I used to go,
Wish my memory were teaming,
With the views my window'll show. 
In my hand I hold my key,
But who can tell if I'm still free?

My interpretation, which I very much hope does not
hurt or offend you, is that the author of this poem
is not on the best of terms with her window,
unable or unwilling, embarrassed or reluctant,
to look through the window in either direction,
inward or out. But at least the existence of the
window is acknowledged. The ability to look out
or to look in, and the reconciliation of the two
domains of whose separateness and communication
the window is a metaphor, will come in due time.
All that is required is patience.

The window is to my mind, a very meaningful symbol,
and if you cared to know, and if you asked me, I
could write long letters about what one might see
if one looks in and what one might see when one
looks out.