Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1086484-Windows
Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1086484
Looking out on life in a big city.

A morning in my recent memory,
too early awakened,
thoughtlessly staring out the window
eyes focused onto a sudden wonder
heavy rain filled clouds clinging to the horizon,
delicate hints of a future clear day above,
and fireballs of fluorescent orange
reflected in windows of buildings left and right,
a sight for my mind’s photo album

Ah ! aerial high-rise landscapes
Menacing skies
ever-changing mazes of restless clouds
a sudden flock of geese
swallows gracefully a month early
(at least nine floors up they seemed)

From my balcony, lower down,
there’s an incredible hill far away,
that foggy mornings hide every now and then,
at night time it twinkles with fairy illuminations we humans are fond of…
From another window
I wait every afternoon for small miracles,
turning my head after an hour’s concentration
I find the pane zigzagged with rain,
I scan the horizon for a quick rainbow ghost
look over there! a sudden patch of blue!
hoping, even in April, for large wet snow flakes,
reminders of snowmen and Christmas
And just when time stretches too much
my flock of seagulls, a hundred miles from salty water,
appears on cue for their winged dances…

Yesterday, the moon spied on most of my afternoon thoughts
setting and rising in such mysterious ways

Every once in a while
there’s a silent storm,
lightning flashing white lace among the high rises,
remember the last fireworks display ?
people suddenly all at their windows pointing in awe…
Such are the small joys of living in the sky behind closed panes

And if one day you wish to touch the clouds,
feel the wind on your face,
taste the rain as it falls quietly
open wide the windows
we can no longer call the air fresh
politeness would speak about a symphony of car horns!
They say it's more pure and calm in the country
but sometimes during sultry summer midnights,
I hear the haunting song of a nightingale lost in the city,
and wonder if I listened more closely
whether I’d hear an owl or two
and I smile, for the next unexpected joy won’t tarry.
The following morning,
pearly drops of dew
outline a spider’s web spun delicately
between the branches of the willow tree I bought another day…

march, 2003

© Copyright 2006 alfred booth, wanbli ska (troubadour at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1086484-Windows