Window to the West
WINDOW TO THE WEST
If I had a window that opened upon the West,
I would open it every dusk,
tether my will to the fading sun,
and allow it to pull me -
drag me across the studded curvature of the Earth,
bouncing me along topography and Time
like a tin can behind a wedding car.
I'd savor the tastes of the middle of my land,
smell sweet corn in fields ten miles wide,
taste the dust of deserts becoming mud under my tongue,
scrape myself along asphalt and tarmac,
viewing my country up close and personal
until I had the sense of coral and brine
on the coast farthest from my home.
If I had a window to the Western skies
I would spend the time to understand
how the pale blue of a day can
find the power to become cobalt of night
by passing through the fires of red.
I would thrust myself skyward at every chance,
a superhero who saves nothing but memories,
finding silken threads of gossamer
left behind by the death of the stars.
And before I returned to my window
I would scatter what I know of true Love
leaving it behind for others to find
as they look out into their own skies.
©2014 Christopher Reilley
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