Inner-Windows
by Odin Roark

Pausing to reflect brings
yesterdays to one’s window
where shadows of once distant storms
did voraciously feed on youth’s naiveté.

Think back…

Once, baseballs and small fingers
were innocent friends,
having never to consider reality’s curves
ultimately spinning outside the zone of fun,
creating a lifetime of running bases,
yet never making it home.

Remember…

When tree huts were mansions,
fireflies danced with stars,
spindly-insects skated
across motionless fishing holes?

Today…

Time’s calendared past awaits to
remind our once youthful eyes
that actuality mirrors not only the now of today,
but bygones passed and faded,
sometimes creating quivering lips and tearful eyes
as we steal a glance into our open-casket memories.

Sooner or later…

We are left with closed eyelids
retaining the remembered child
of stick-figure dreams,
peering back at us through open-window freedom,
where once pastel innocence dreamt without fear,
until the dense colors of reality
sealed the window shut.

Sadly…

It isn’t any wonder why so many bury the passage of time,
as if like the setting sun,
or the blowing out of birthday candles,
the light of expectation has to be extinguished.

Truth’s legacy…

Asks memory to remain a place of renewal,
whether while sitting on a park bench,
or during a late-night walk in the park,
even beneath the morning showerhead.

Which might mean…

Should we give tomorrow a chance
to look into our inner-window,
standing side by side
will be the me of me,
the you of you,
the present of past,
musing over new possibilities
with life’s stick figure realm
who’s always there
thinking young.