Peeling Paint MAG

By Unknown, Unknown, Unknown

   I look out the windowpane,

Watching the world.

The paint around the glass is peeling,

But that's all right, I like it that way.

The sky is bleached,

Like a crisp sheet of paper.

The wind weaves through the bare, gray branches.

Isolated patches of snow are scattered here and there.

Left behind by the sun,

Only to melt tomorrow.

In the house across the street a warm yellow light glows through the windows.

A young girl opens the front door and steps outside.

Her turquoise shirt is bright,

Cutting through the deepening shadows

Like a shining star.

A car door slams, a motor hums.

She leaves, driving slowly away.

An airplane passes overhead,

And in the distance I hear cars speeding down the road.

The girl is probably with them,

Going someplace special in her dazzling shirt.

I, thought, am content just to sit here with

My windowpane and peeling paint.

It's comfortable.

Sometimes I like to just sit for a while,

With a pen.

A blank page before me,

A blank page above me,

And all the time I'll ever need to fill them.

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