A Window

Window


There is a window of mine where the cold of winter lingers.
A window unseen, unopened—not by me.

It casts a shadow heavy as life itself
my small defiance against a world grown dim.
These quiet corners where time blurs all things into distance.
The ache of accepting what I can never hold.
And the longing that will not fade, led always by the traces that will not disappear.

My lost familiar rhythms.
My verses once tireless and lovely as the footsteps of children at play.
My deep passions that glowed without polishing.
The azaleas that came running with spring.
The little mirror I used to see only when I turned away.
The thousand reflections of myself that streamed within it.
The soft, steady sound of my mother shaping trees.
The bashful footsteps of my tipsy father, late at night.

I once had a window through which every fearful wind of the world melted away.
A window I closed—and yet through which everything still shone so vividly clear.


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