My Window Faces South
by Tim Reed
My window faces South.
It always has, for as long as I can remember.
Mountain air rocked my cradle
adventure filled my lungs
Joy and surprise shod my feet -
Innocence, the cry from my chest.
Life was good in those days,
and my window faced the South.
Next came fire and ice.
Black and white clothed my vision.
Passion and quest beset me -
they alone held the skeleton key to my heart-doors.
Wit was my friend in that time.
Sabres of debate and humor clashed as I spoke.
Sparks of life flew back then,
and my window faced the South.
Then a cold draft of sorrow crept into my bones
a tempering grey colored my eyes
Death. . . dogged my steps
Ashes became my robe.
I felt old, and my mind was a century
but my window faced the South.
A new wind now brushes away cobwebs.
Ashes are replaced by tender plant-roots.
Spring's warm kiss placates Snow's gloomy stare
Perhaps the young once more effuses the air.
A red sun beckons.
Unknown voices clamor.
I know there is life left in this frame.
How do I know?
My window faces the South.
It always has, for as long as I can remember.
I was made for living.
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