Thursday, April 5, 2012

Light Through My Window

Three a.m.
Alone on the sofa with my thoughts and a terry blanket from my twelve-year old son. Recommended it as the “best in the house.”

Light through my window.
A view seldom contemplated these days,
yet forged into my memory from another time.
As a boy, being sent to bed earlier than self-prescribed I would peer out from my single bunk trying to make sense of night time mystery.
Tonight, in the wee hours before dawn, my blankie and I cling to each other.
Old hackberry tree limbs reaching, clawing over the neighbor's roof,
Scant leaves of early spring, silhouetted by moonlight giving backdrop to their host's frozen tentacles.

Light through my window.
A white washed pane’s edge reflects the mood of the night outward, vertical and brilliant.
Finding its brightness amidst the darkness and shadow-woes like a silver stake.
Slicing as a beacon behind which I lay; stirring from my crushed feather pillow.
I lie curiously and wonder what lurks beneath the ledge of brick mould upon the grass and leaves, out of sight from my gazing.
Against the foundation like a spy on a mission, perhaps, some furry creature steps or scurries out of my view on their way to harass a nocturnal neighbor.

Light through my window.
Dimly the backdrop casts color now, of pinks and grays.
Is the new day dawning so soon or my eyes giving way to accepting the night's true hue?
The glow from the street lamps from a block away, I believe.
Reflecting toward the cloud base and then mirrored down and picked up by my north facing, constant pane.
Call those dark ones out of the forest to my window.

Light through my window.
A portal set for me to capture the night, its secreted residents, in wary doses.
And yet, I imagine its force as a destination for that world outside.
The lower pane’s whetted outline still shimmering. Beckoning.
“Come look at the boy inside!”

Light through my window.
My stomach growls. My forehead perspires. Awakened fully from my mind’s carried-away adventures.
The night doesn't sleep nor do I. Only the Sand Man, apparently.
I must forage and act as those reaching limbs in the darkness, craning mine to hover peanut butter and jam.
Feeding my soul and the boy inside - me.