Windowed
Book in hand, I find a quiet corner,
pillowed bench in bay window,
inside looking out . . .
or is it outside looking in?
Unread words signal for rescue,
drowning in ink gone liquid
welling up from some salty inner spring,
pressured heart the incessant source.
Weary thoughts wander
outside open windows . . .
soon, feet follow, white and bare,
to chase across dew drenched grasses,
inquisitive masses repressed,
where the moon hangs large and low,
beauty begging to be grasped.
Take me away with you, Luna,
hide me in your dark eclipse
where prying eyes miss
the emptiness surrounding . . .
Urbane wise men say
this will pass,
this aching, animal-burrowing;
I doubt they ever walked this way,
this windowed way,
looking out
or is it looking in?
Copyright, July 1, 2017
Faye Lanham Gibson
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