Windows

We are no story of love.
We are a novel of redemption.
Chapters of construction
of breaking down and rebuilding of keystroke homes
the meditation between cannon fires and sea-fed sirens outside
kept at bay by the stained glass, still framed, window panes.
The pains, of being alone.
Seep into me as I rise to the closed, winter-bitten screen.
Images
flash from a darkened sun on a canvas, me.
2012. Raging husbands and submitted wives,
I see no hope in the children's eyes.
Volcanoes fire
electrocuting telephone wires
we place as halos on the damned.
They chisel their way into my sponge of a mind.
I wake up. Your arms are around me.
You smile.
The images, beaten out with a head on collision,
a soft supernova, a gentle body slam.
the empty spaces in my hands and mouth filled
My gaze opens, pupils dialate.
Light let in, My sight returns.
Scanning vast landscapes until the drop of ocean edge
the square planet we live on,
the beautiful truth of this naiivety.
Waltzing heaven-sents
You are a child's laughter and a soul saved; a harbor built for the aimless seafarer.
You are the gloves and the three layered socks in the dead of winter. You are the fireside and the smell of rain upon evergreens. You are the warmest globe of yellow heat-rays stretching out and encircling me.
The words "good morning," painted on your lips.
And now, I see all, through you, my open window.