(no subject)
Window’s Edge
Across the untouched roots of the open plains,
One looks, peering into the loneliest of places.
Standing strong, anchored to the Earth
A home stands.
Past the old picket fence
Once gleaming of its recent wash,
Peering over the window’s edge
One can see everything the past once held.
The past of another’s life,
Of a life lived alone.
Seeing the dusty covers
Shrouding the remaining articles
One can picture the roaring fire
Sitting in the antique chair
Catching up on your favorite book.
But what if you lived there,
Looking the other way
Over the window’s edge and past the picket fence.
What would you see as the others looked back?