Limbic
Nights I cannot sleep I drag these ramshackle atoms downstairs and peer through my favorite window, the one in the kitchen, to find all manner of nocturnal critters congregating. There is the skunk that resembles a renaissance painting, the shock of possum nosing seeds, and the blur I cannot name perched on the fountain. Nameless is my favorite. A numinous blotch, it is the envy of angles. I can sympathize with that: a decidedly-unformed-yet-still-thirsty-thing. I am fanatical for windows of all shapes and sizes. And what makes a window, one wonders? More than glass limned with a little wood, it is the embodiment of futurity. A window means POSSIBILITY. A window affords us a rabbit hole to an OTHERWISE, and of course a window may be opened. But until we are ready to step through, to cross over, it is consummately patient. A window says, you are there but you could easily be here, or vice versa. A window never shouts its sermons. A window always speaks in hushed syllables, church-quiet. A window carries testimony, rites, alms for the poor. I have never known a love more longanimous. A true window is one that permits the passage of ostensible light. It is a conduit for astonishment. For example, you too are a window. Tonight, I watch my backyard electrified with life. All my mortal seasons I’ve been trying to make windows out of these walls. Maybe, one of these days, I’ll finally step through?
