Cradling Sight
She is unassuming,
my window.
Frame of knotted red oak,
age lines creasing her from right
to left
and top
to bottom.
I like to run my fingers
along her sill,
idly tracing her smooth
hardness.
She cradles my thoughts,
provides a porthole view
into the ocean swimming
with my future, present, and past.
These days I am too big to sit
in her comforting frame
as I did in my youth.
Her lovely bones groan
as I close her,
full of the wonders
she chose to provide.
American writer
I often dream of the window at the head of my bed in my childhood home. Its flaky white paint was a joy to scratch and pull off, much to the frustration of my mother, and I smile as I remember the countless warm summer nights with her open and a soft breeze playing over my face as the sound of trains echoed through our small neighborhood. She has become a tactile memory that I use during meditation. I relish the feeling of my back against her frame and her sill supporting me as I stared out on a rainy day, watching droplets land and inevitably run down her panes.
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In gratitude :)
