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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.
My hand outstretched on a summer’s night, silent English garden, latticed glass. Grandfather moves in elegant curves snipping dead roses hedged by flowers in the twilight, a train in the distance, his sludge green cashmere cardy hugging him as I would. In my four year old mind a switch flicks and the threat of primordial loss swells my silent throat, my hand reaches out to hold, but he oblivious to me moves quietly through the blooms selecting one or two for breakfast trays.
Through window panes
where the sky changing light
always implacably watches.