Forever Windows
 
Hours of days passed by,
days of seasons fed raucously
amid timid fires in wait.
 
When baseballs told small fingers
life curved beyond fun,
when tree huts were home
and fireflies mixed with stars,
while skater-sects skinny dipped
across bottomless fishing holes.
 
Transparency now reflects between youthful eyes
and adult tamed hope.
Mirrors today as now,
while out there, 
a flurry of yesterday passes
at times like persimmon's astringent cinched lips
against open-casket memories.
 
Across the aisle
a child draws stick-figure dreams
upon his window-canvas of shallow steamed invitation,
seeing not beyond,
but appeased by imagination made real.
 
Turning back to our windows,
adorned by more thread-bare tapestry than canvas,
the sight of past-aged time capsules spring
arresting sounds that rift recall,
while invading whispers sing of the quiet.
 
Bullet trains of yesteryear
are but antiquity forever,
as our mach-speed and rail-less levitation passes
where only yesterday’s soil rich ground of many stalks of corn
patiently reached to the sky,
but today possessed of foreign launch pad after launch pad
capable of spewing mushroom clouds of fire and dust.
 
Yes, just another departure from
our desert Grand Central animatronic-fenced astral playgrounds,
where rust protective coating
keeps 5-star shoulders a-shine
for sparkler-live circles of daily and hourly celebratory excursions.
 
Upward.
 
Outward.
 
Inward.
 
Always observing.
We build launch pads of our own.
 
We devour yesterday's darkness
like birthday cakes of yore,
their inextinguishable candles of tomorrow forever lit,
honoring fading images of yesterday's innocence. 
 
Glassed overhead sky domes,
like metaphysical intuition,
beg us gaze upon this
seamless,
amorphous,
wonder.
 
Here is where dreams are but milestones to
yesterday’s anticipation,
today's reality-chosen bids,
tomorrow's trusting resolve.
 
Time's meaning untold…
 
Such are life's rhythms.

Tempos.
Commas.
Ellipses,
and periods.
 
Even question marks for some cadence surprises.
 
Where upon the page,
and only upon the page,
 these sheets of groundings,
these mist-etched finger-batons of our youth,
the ever evolving growth of perception,
are but our stories,
all to be told.

Hopefully heard.
 
Our pens ever filled
by ink's fearless trust.
We see blank pages now facing us,
mere momentary tunnels to pass through,
the seemingly granite hard mountainside of fear
about to be rendered scree
by Need's tenaciously born faith.
 
Upon airless glide above the fray,
we suspend our breath
to tunnel's end,
find light always prevailing,
even as adjacent suffocation threatens our
routes less traveled.
 
The power of refractive disturbance
remains but a blurred wave outside.
 
Our mind's focus,
heart's duty,
and breath's insistence,
forever sustain
our child-protected imagination,
our refusal to grow(too)up.
 
If only we could/will see it so.
 
Forever Windows.