Shane Zhao Poet Free verse

Window 16-10-2025

Humans are the most honest when daydreaming;
we think about what we want, what we once were and what we could be.
Like now, I'm drawing smiley faces
on the condensation of my bedroom window,
the smiles always frustratingly lopsided.

Outside, it's raining,
falling in sheets like the autumn leaves,
the raindrops accelerating, shattering on the sill.
Through my wonky smiles, I peer outside
and the gloomy sky looks back in equal boredom.

I focus on the window pane,
scrubbing out a dry circle with the corner of my sleeve,
(it’ll fog up again soon, anyway).
I watch the drops trickle down the length of the glass;
racing raindrops were a childhood favourite.
I trace their stops and starts
before they inevitably pile up at the bottom,
leaving thin streaks of water
glistening on the surface.

I wonder if the glass misses its home-
if it longs to return to the beach it came from.
Once upon a time, the window I checked the weather through each day
was once nothing more than a pile of sand,
bowing to the unerring will of the ocean,
until it was lifted, carried to a factory,
and there, met fire- real heat- and became glass.

I wonder if the glass misses the saltiness of the sea,
the raw glare of the sun and the feeling of teetering
on the edge of the ocean abyss,
that sensation of randomness, freedom and surprise.
Would it, given the choice, return to being sand?

Unfortunately, science dictates this to be impossible.
Glass is not sand, and even if it once was, it never will be again.
My window doesn't know that some journeys, once begun,
will only leave you with the ability
to remember
and remember 
and remember.

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