“It’s too cold outside for angels to fly.”
― Ed Sheeran
The Window ~
I don’t look out the window any more…
the frost has crept across the glass and across my heart as well.
The sunlight invites from the other side of the pane
plays sweetly over the rooftops,
but my eyes turn inward
to the hardening icebound center of me.
The beats booming like breaking polar caps
and I don’t look for saving
or warmth anymore…
it’s easier this way.
My guardian angel finally packed up and went south
because the frostbite from my shoulder clipped her wings
and these words I pen
are crystallizing on the page,
crisping like autumn leaves captured in an icy puddle,
and I hope the color holds
because there is no reflection from me to lend them depth.
I don’t look out the window any more
with my fingers leaving hot penny circles.
I don’t want to look.
I don’t want to know.
I just want to settle back
and wait for the final frigid moment
when both time and my burnt finger feelings freeze.
And perhaps later I can start to listen for the clock
the single minded sweeping of the moon
to tell me when its safe to exhale again.
To draw in a warm breath bravely,
to step over to the window and once more