Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

Window‘s Open

Transitional seasons
Are those
The windows can be left open
To let air in,
The cool enough, warm enough air,
Air that carries the sounds of night:
Crickets, croaks, coons and coyotes.

Coyotes: like packs of spooky ghosts,
Traveling fast through the shadows of…
Of Landscape that has lost its definition,
Wake me at 2:30 to the thoughts
The air has also brought in to my
Mind’s disarray, losing its definition.

I feel forgotten, or, worse, erased.

I want to jump out my window
Join the pack wandering below
The moonless sky, only stars:
Those we always see, and those
We only see when the brightness
Of other things finally dims so we
Can make out their presence,
Remembering their part in the
Constellations as important to the
Myths told to children as lessons
Of how to live. Don’t erase them.
Don’t let these stories be faded
From our night’s sky’s
Luminescence. I dare say, these
Windows, opened, let air carry in-
To the empty space inside, proof:

Invisible things exist, diserased.

14 Responses to “Window‘s Open”

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