But a Window

Back in the 60’s

I am but a window.

Where Jersey's skies kiss Manhattan's skyline

neither peace nor rage do I paint.

Held by clouds of gauze laced boundary lines

I am offered fleeting sanctuary to the rising ethos.

Horns,

voices,

 clanging,

jackhammers,

 breaking the incensed ether of mass confusion,

all of equal worthiness seeking, through me,

a release from unbridled fear,

 copious love,

rampant loneliness,

 and the 20 year old’s hopeful ego.

However…

Like all windows,

one either glances through me,

contemplates the layered images,

renounces the obvious,

allows transparency to guide,

Or…

Acquiescence draws a curtain of doubt,

whether ignorance,

 hostility,

vengeful composure,

 or guilt by default,

I am but a window in that long-ago year

where the attic of discovery atop a theater

brought forth a youth's malign-encrusted portal.

Like a fragile interface,

I separate a windowsill pigeon’s freedom from fearful man

As old visions shatter,

giving birth to epiphany.

Rest assured…

 My lens of discovery does not provide answers from the outside

But instead reflect,

asking you to look within to find the echo of light afforded by

shadow's lateral arabesque,

and embrace the inner treasures often left undiscovered.

Giving yourself permission

to embrace hidden gifts

while smiling at the drifting amorphous gray outside

offers few answers, save...

Joy in our continued friendship,

I being but a window,

 providing transparency and reflection

and you enduring examination

and hopefully

an epiphany or two.