We live here,
pinches the outside of my window,
a gentle beauty
I did not expect to find on my side
of New York City.
The big picture is always on my mind;
and yet I so rarely see it.
I can stand across the street
and trace the molding with my finger,
flowers and leaves winding down,
perfectly framing a place
that makes home feel a little bit closer.
My head hurts, sometimes.
Despite the pretty picture
I can still hear the questions
layered in the window pane,
stories corned in by concrete slabs
and the society
we close our doors and try to hide from
We cannot lock ourselves away forever.
My eyes are beginning to open,
learning what it means to not just think
but to be whole;
not just to trace the molding
but to hold the painting,
turn the knob,
open the door.
September 18, 2015