Window Light

It was a moment of walking when
the light changed,
glowed,
abolished all notion of chill from the wind
and
smiled out from windows like
gloves onto hands.

Fractured by the lines of
spindly branches,
leafless,
the light lifted the world into
a moment of fantasy,
a drifted painted world,
a world asleep in its vibrance,
a world patient in its anachronism.

Walking, we
witnessed this moment,
shuttered up in our coats and gloves like
seals in fat;
we basked briefly in the small sun
of that window-light

and walked on.

©K Paige Medina 24 February 2017

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The Land of Mornings

I live in a land of mornings,
where the fog stays low and wild,
and the history is permanent
in the eyes of every child.
It is here that there are windows
peering out on gloomy streets,
And the heaviness of evening
is when star-crossed lovers meet.
Our emptiness is welcomed–
as the empty always are–
by the cold arms of old cities
bearing streets and lights and bars.
It’s the romance of a moment,
but these moments seldom stay,
lingering too long at thresholds,
only then to steal away
with the radiator heat
trailing after crunching soles,
it taps on windows, begging
to be let in from the cold.
But be careful when you let it,
for the walls remember still
shadows of moments past
left to freeze out on the sill.

© K Paige Medina 12/17/2016