Infinite Birth

It was but a window then.

The skies of Jersey met Manhattan,

painting neither peace or rage,

held by clouds of gauze-laced boundary lines,

giving temporary haven to the rising ethos.

Horns,

Voices,

Clangs,

Jackhammers,

incensed ether of mass confusion.

All of like worthiness

Seeking, as I

 a window that would give release

to unbridled fear,

copious love,

rampant loneliness,

and a child’s hope inside an insistent ego.

Like all windows, however,

One either glances through,

contemplates the layered images,

renouncing the obvious,

allowing transparency to direct,

or

Acquiescence pulls shut a curtain of doubt,

whether ignorance,

hostility,

vengeful composure,

or guilt by default.

It was but a window then.

That long ago year,

where the attic of discovery

atop a theater

brought fourth a youth’s

malign-encrusted portal.

And like a tenuous interface,

the glass separating feathered freedom from fearful man,

old visions became shattered

giving birth to an epiphany.

For windows provide not answers from gifts outside,

but instead provide a reflection that asks we look within,

find the echo from light afforded by shadow’s lateral arabesque,

and embrace the inner treasures so often left undiscovered.

Giving ourselves permission

to embrace the hidden gifts

while smiling at the drifting amorphous gray outside

offers little of answers,

only joy in the new questions answered,

why windowed walls provide such giving illusions,

why examination parents forth infinite birth.

And here we are.