The Open Window

A placid pace is set by fallen snow,
A soft white down to the hard winter cold.
The trees and flowers weighted down,
As the swayed back of a laboured horse.

The bruised shadow on the glittering dew is the sun,
The shade of the trees and flowers the moon.
The stars have fallen down upon the ground,
As have tears the from my cheeks.

I do not sorrow, I wait.
I wait in vain, perhaps, but I wait.
I wait for a new day, a new time,
A new life, even, a free one.
Free of the pain of today,
Free of the loss of tomorrow.

A pale mist descents,
Waning the sun and merging the moon,
All is one, now.
The day is growing but the sky of the ground is fading.
Flakes dance before me.

A vast distance between flakes, there must be,
Even though they fall thicker than honey from a beehive.
Some are glistening gold, though.
That causes similarity.
The snow is sweet.

I want to shout out,
Out loud, to the world.
“Look what I see! A dead world, brought to life by the down of the sky,
It’s falling, can’t you see?
It’s falling. Falling down.”
All the way down, now, to the bleached white ground.

I close my window and open my eyes.
They sting from the city air.
My window is sealed, but I can still hear the snow falling
Above the stench of populace, I still breathe the scent of crisp green pine.
The lingering dream, from my open window.