In the summer when your curtains
play with the wind
my eyes turn
to your open window.
I linger
and tumble down
I am thoughts of things
that were and were not.

In the fall when colors blare
signaling a coming or a going
I gather and I do not
I pass your window
there is a sense of harvest
a time of cornucopia
a feeling the grain bins
of the spirit will be filled
the time of growing has yielded
to maturation.

Winter comes and freezes on your window
I am more huddled now
your drapes not animate
your window will not look at me.

Then there is spring
with its pastels of inconsistencies
I hold my longing as I do my breath.

I am outside the seasons.
There is no face that waits
no heart upon the curtains
why look at that awkward window
except I might see you there.

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