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 dream like this

must be a mere flicker of time,

a clipped reverie;

but I will try each frosted pane,

every attic skylight,

until the clocks run backward into yesterday.

 

Chris Hubbard

Perth

2016