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A Window
December 12, 2008
When looking at me,
People don’t often see me.
They look outside and
Marvel at the clouds, the trees, the grass.
They exclaim what a wonderful day it is
Or how sad they feel when it rains.
How serene is the snow
Or how fascinating are
Those leisurely passing by.
They speak of poor trees being whipped by the wind
Or of the squirrel awkwardly preparing for winter’s wrath.
Yet still
While the scene they are watching is ever-changing
They never notice the one thing that’s always there.
Me.
A window.
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