Through the Window
The sound of birds
Tires on pavement
The cool breath of mid April
Through the window
My lungs too fill with this life
As all creation wipes sleep from crusty eyes
And yawns, stretching frozen ligaments
Toes sprout from beneath winter quilts
Touching cool floor to tender skin
My lungs and this house too exhale
With white steam from black coffee
And melting butter on warm toast
As somewhere a radio speaks
Of real problems in imaginary lands
Are the birds aware?
Do they see my movement
As a response to their own
Through the window?
Me (in words.)
Sometimes I like to write. Not well, mind you. But I do it just the same.