Small spaces of light
that lead us from the outside in,
frames dripping condensation.
Still the harsh frost claws the land,
crisping the pliable,
Myopic dreams of troubled seas,
reclaiming land and structure::
the universe exists before and after,
we are but evolutionary modules
struggling to understand,
windows into our own definition of the past.
“Quick said the bird”
children rustling in the rose garden,
through window panes
where the sky changing light
always implacably watches.