Listen to the windows speak. Their ledges call and beckon. With the snow and sprinkled rain and the dirt blown high up from the ground, where you can hear echoes. Footsteps. Walking and talking and voices and chiming. Listen. Listen to the windows speak. Their glass holds shadows. Spirited teeth gnashing the ears on your head. And you’re listening. Creeping closer to hear what they are going to say to you. It’s never decipherable. Ever.
You recall the nights when the breeze sang something sweet. You were bait. The swift sonnet broke into your dreams and drew you to the divided window. To the shadows. To the ledges and the voices with the snow and the rain droplets and the dirt blown up from the ground, where the echoes were. The gravel brick under your feet. The snow. The rain. Or the dirt.
Peace of mind isn’t a reality. It suggests utopia, but nobody lives long in a perfect atmosphere. Perfection remains silent. The world remains chaotic. Loud. There are voices thundering outside the window. They call. You answer. They whisper, you lean in to answer. They bring the props; the snow, the rain, the dirt. You dress for the occasion in bare feet and the hem of a night gown.
Morning wakes up all alone. The ledges don’t call. The ledges don’t beckon.
The windows don’t speak.
- window pain