Open Windows

We sit in rooms bejeweled
with strange arrays of colour,
leaving thought behind
in the wake of the moment.

The drapes flutter with
the wind like the wings
of a emerald dragonfly,
and we relish the cool feel.

The stars gaze at us,
jealousy flaring,
for we are the brightest
in this night sky.

When eyes see no more
than what is plainly obvious,
we toil to compose
our magnificence.

The door was unlocked
when you drove me here,
it was open for all
to see inside this house.

The windows were barred shut,
but they seemed to creak
just a little bit less
than expected when opened.

It's funny how things change shape,
a once ominous building
suddenly budding with new growth,
shedding it's rusty exterior.

The table was set
when I entered this hall,
the finest china on the table,
gleaming with a silver trim.

There are a few cracks
in the ceiling,
and the paint needs to be
r e f r e s h e d.

But all in all,
a strong,
sturdy
house.

All the finery in the world
seemed to take shape here,
blossoming wonders
with every step.

Recently it's been quiet,
so to amuse myself
I throw stones into the
midnight black pond across the way.

The animals fall into
their circadian rhythms
as winter steals the last
drops of colour.

The pond freezes and I am left
to contemplate the nature
of man and beast alike,
I've been snowed in.

Gently the world closes
around my sanctuary,
the gardens no longer blossom,
no fresh smell of herbs.

I silently sit
at the open window,
watching the snow fall,
lost in the elegance of it all.

And to think that someone
abandoned such beautiful scenery
just as the seasons changed
creating something more beautiful to behold.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved