Window

A cold breeze is in the air.

The only light is from the streetlamp that finds itself

In an intersection of back street paths;

Its brightness shatters into a thousand blurred dots.

It’s raining.

Houses bound both sides of the thin alleyway,

Their rooves seeming level with the glass.

Sometimes they are covered in snow or frost

And look like fields of white.

Mostly it is just the slate which one sees

The one, single, continuous colour.

Its continuity brings peace.

The houses extend along to each side

To the right, cut off by a road

To the left, they stretch seemingly forever

Only by leaning out can one see the end.

There is something uncertain about that place.

Only by reaching out

By creating a risk

Can one see the end.

If one does not intervene, then they truly are endless.

Magical.

Moss grows in the garden below

In contrast with the bare concrete floor

It is tough, but the plants still find a way

Working up through cracks and crevices.
It climbs up the wall.

Atop the wall,

One often sees a cat.

Not a single cat, but a different cat each time

They traverse the garden walls with ease

Their balance perfect.

They mark the serenity of that place.

Stones (in the wall)

They are set into the brick

Though who knows how

Each is smooth

Weathered by hundreds, maybe thousands of years

Years of water passing

Of tides

Of rain just like this.

Each holds a different colour

Some are bright green

Deep blues

Solemn blacks

Some wear their colours on the outside

Making their true selves known to the world.

Others keep their colours close to their hearts

You can see only small specks of their colours.

These ones hide close into the wall

They are afraid to come out

But in them, one can still see the colours

No matter how much they try to hide it

One can still see their beauty.

Moss (Reprise)

The moss that grows on the side,

It is not like that which grows on the top.

Where valleys and fields cap the wall, the moss in the side

It grows in cracks,

In gaps in the brick.

It clings to the hidden places

Instead of dominating, it fills

Smooths over

Augments.

In many ways it’s easier to see oneself in the moss of the side;

A person doesn’t control entire landscapes;

A person fits into a structure.

They build on that structure.

Like the moss does.

It is still beautiful.

Streetlamp

The scattering of streetlight makes a thousand stars

Each one a reflection of a tiny stone

Each stone soaked through and through

The water shining its surface

And making constellations in the light polluted night.

The glow is warm,

Reflecting in puddles and off of windows
Refracting and changing and yet always staying the same

It adds a sepia filter to the one’s thoughts

On such a serene night.

Its brightness lights the path before one’s feet

Marking the way through the otherwise directionless darkness

A darkness where each road leads off into the void

And every footfall can be a misstep.

It has been there for so long

That it has seeped into our culture.

It is artificial through and through

And yet feels like it brings one closer to nature.

It is comforting.