My window is the world.

A patch of light illumines
the Autumn leaf,
shimmers its veins,
its seminal understanding
of life in its transitional story,
I had two raspberry eyes and ten mulberry
fingers as a child,
I grew until I weighed myself down;

I picked flowers.

Bees and butterflies
looked over my shoulder, darted in and out
amoung the splendor of Crayola colours,
I gave them to my mother with little thought
for lonely dandelions or the scent of fields
abundant with clover beyond my small child's world.

I can not withhold my breath
for these things seen and unseen,
for there is peace in my valley, and my
valley is resplendent with an all-pervading mystery.

I am more than a voyeur. I am neither lost nor abandoned, I am
the all-seeing eye,
I find my home neither here nor there.
I am ever reemerging.

I am the Lover and the Beloved, a thought that is my creation.
Not alone, am I. My window is my world.