Window to The Wind

By Rhonda Davis

A leaf trapped between a torn screen

the window pane withering wistfully

as unseen scars scratch into the leafs veins.

A snowflake on its way to the ground, forms as

it forgets how it is molded, holding only the memory

of the cold.

A rose's thorns pricking unknown thumbs,

bathing in the blood, as it grants its beauty to a table

and it’s lonely waiting vase, a very short display.

A man walking in the direction of the wind,

his wails unheard, unknown,  un-felt,

his feet unsure,  unsteady, unguided.

Windows, some up, some down,

some shutting out the cries when searched

for, not found.

A runaway needing a pathway,

choosing a road unknown with no fear,

to escape ears that refuse to hear,

what they truly fear.

A bag of dope slipping from a pocket

of no hope into the gutter ,

becoming one less useless

Minute spent numb. So numb.

A crumpled letter laying beside

a body devoid of life,

filled with the voice of one song

no longer able to belong, belong here.

A door opened letting in more

than a breeze, letting in more than the feet

of the love that left so long ago,

welcoming with ease.

A coffee cup unused, chipped but

Kept in the window, seen from below

Shining in the sun.
Unused.

Windows, closed tight.