The Window

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I inspect the window, determining its role
Reflecting in the sun,
I see all of the dust and dirt marks,
Giving the outside world a distorted representation of
what home is:
Maybe, it’s within the forests of trees,
and the mountain streams,
with their moss-ridden river rocks,
casting edges to the effervescent flow
Smelling of pureness, only found in the seeking, beating heart.
Or, perhaps, of the blue expanse of discovery,
where the broken bits of sand collect to tell a story;
The mystery of obscurity that somehow seems familiar
What is it, that I expect to see,
Staring out of this window in front of me; with its blinded view of 22 rectangles of collective panoramic angles to entertain;
A view obscured by the old cedar tree,
Where the birds like to come and inspect,
peck, to dig down to the secrets of its history?
And I gaze out past the bark,
Past the pine needles,
and the sprouting buds
Eyes hazed over,
No longer inspecting the reflection but,
Wondering what a glimpse past your window brings, and imagining,
That I can see it too.

I am grateful to have a sunny spot to sit. ❤

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