The West Window

 
Wooden chimes outside my
window sound memories of
peddlers on the mountain  
side, their mules laden with  
trappings of nature. Metal  
utensils knocking against a  
feed strap buckle, silhouettes
blocking the light. Rain sliding
like shale under their hooves  
and feet over the slanted surface  
of leaves toward the lush green    
canyon below; a turbine of wind  
blows across a shoreline of lace,  
its gust extinguishes a constellation
of tea lighted stars and planets.
This pen, with its extension of
fingers becoming a hermit crab  
of words scuttling over the page,
burrowing under cool sheets to
avoid rain and running ink.  
 
Not unlike this swirling debris
that will be integrated into new  
surroundings, we are all universal  
fragments of dust magnetized  
into poetry, music, and the arts.  
But, we aren't so splintered apart
that we cannot be re-created  
as beautiful mosaics reflecting  
each other's cracked light  
as though formed as one piece
never separated to begin with.
~