The dew on my window
condenses, collects,
And bubbles with sunlight,
a golden ambrosia.
From angels it borrows,
from heaven selects,
The wine of dawn’s twilight,
fermenting aurora.
My hand and my window
meet wet, flesh and glass.
Embracing the sweat drops
with cold fingertips,
I inscribe my sorrow,
my anguished morass,
As I tenderly mop
up the morning in sips.
Outside of the window
flows an icy stream
That babbles crescendos
like sparrows in song,
Announcing the morrow,
the new sun-wrapped dream,
In small, bird-like altos
like whistlings prolonged.
But out of the window
I refuse to look,
For I know it’s the same
as last that I peered.
Instead I will wallow
inside of a book,
Where I think I’ll be sane,
inside of my fears.
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Submission Name: Window
