Mahogany

THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS....

The panes were sweet mahogany, carefully crafted to create a certain sense of serenity. Etched strategically into the rich wood were leaves; not too deep - just perfectly placed in the shallow depths of each frame. The artist must have known the couple. Perhaps understood their personalities, anxieties, fears; for although each window pane looked the same from afar, they were in fact rather different. Endowment rendered, they were individually left with quite distinct dispositions.

Whatever the matter, Roselyn spent most her time gazing purposely out the windows paned with character. What she saw, what she was looking at, is a mystery to anyone. And although her husband would sit with her sometimes, he never did ask what it was she was doing. They'd simply discuss the remote nothingness of the days: what was for dinner, how annoying that songbird was, how time had seemed to pass as gently as a summer's creek.

I wonder though if her mind was quite somewhere else. A far away place. As if the windows were in fact paper with which she was writing a story. Each chapter thoughtfully embossed into the glass sheets; living, breathing, life both inside and outside the house.

I

want to write,

like a song bird in the early morning.

Exhaling melodies into the open

air for the wind to seize

upon its back. Carrying them distances

until my voice grows hoarse.

I

want to write,

as if the harvest moon's just settled,

low. Laying its gentle shadow amidst

a backdrop of darkness, while she

hums sweet lullabies

to her dreaming souls.

I

want to write,

for the voice that isn't heard

in the back of the room on a rainy day.

Under a shadow's doubt, hidden

behind a facade so eager to listen -

yet unable to hear.

I

want to write.

Most said it would be like this. Sudden. Breath taking. But more importantly - at a moment when I'd forgotten about looking for it - an instant when I'd given up on the finding.

It came rushing full force, like a warm humid breeze on a summer's morning; feelings brimming, skin clammy, muscles calm. And then there was the way he kissed me. It was laced in honesty and character, causing a shutter much like a rather girlish crush. Perhaps it was the softness of his lips or the gentility with which he held me as the winter air caught short my breath. Regardless, it felt good, trustworthy - like nothing I've allowed in years. Comfortable. Easy.

It came over me like a warm humid breeze, a breeze I want to pocket and keep. A breeze I hope keeps finding its way towards my direction.