next door they've got new windows

all triple-glazed for noise and heat

hermetically sealed against society

frost and storms designed to beat

yet other enemies will get through

invisible demons with wings of fire

on those panes reflections of one

mountainous molten funeral pyre

coming round but I'll never be right

lungs crackling like broken glass

legs potent...

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Low early autumn sun

a lone long strand of spider silk

                stretched across the window glass

                above a tiny downy feather like a snowflake

shivering in the breeze

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This poem is a reverie and contemplation of my mother.

Time and Windows

If the past is a tattered old book,

then why am I a ghost

at my mother's window,

so clear I can sense her mystery,

and her brown eyes, so alive?

Look, I can fly to her

through the high windows

of my memory

until I'm so close that she disappears,

and the curtain flutters silently.

A...

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Reflections...

times and places and being....

always there...

always just out of reach...

glimpses flitting between lenses...

shimmering a way off

in the play of the light in your eyes...

reflecting back

from the window to my soul...

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I was looking at that window thinking

there's someone I love in there - 

and she was

I looked at your window later

waving a thousand times - 

and yet couldn't stop

I'm looking at that dim lit window

as cold rain struggles to freeze white -

And in there are my mad life's beauties,

as I lean against the first of January's nights

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