The picture window,
my guide to the world around me,
could be a rainy day,
I watch the slick survival of a city,
might now sunshine cast shadows,
while domesticated bird houses
offer a gallery,
for my child-like eyes,
to always wonder why.
Soft fabric of the green sitting chair,
matched the other nearby,
always vacant to my stare,
yet, I could rely upon its permanence,
never to leave me,
always after eyes searching the world,
step back in to my shelter,
and there the matching green …
There’s always something
reassuring
about the static in life.
I once was a young,
who only felt tears when
necessary rites of passage,
would slow my way.
Eventually I’d find windows
to imagine, take me away
to different places,
my mind a brilliant coaster,
never letting me stay in one place
forever too long.
Sitting differently today,
the furniture rearranged,
wishing all those moments
I wanted to get away,
would somehow return,
I could then seen them both,
sitting with smiles,
the usual way,
because back then,
I never felt that breeze.
The picture window,
still remains,
a different set of eyes,
glancing through their destiny,
wondering about the other side,
where the glass is pummeled
by the occasional stray bird
trying to find their way,
child reaches,
and wings drift away.
I remember one afternoon,
listening to the rain,
wanting everything
to always stay the same.
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