22 August 2010

Window in Time

The old windows drip. Surrounding me on three sides, I lay still in the moonlight a reflection of my waking self. 

The bedroom was slapped onto the side of the house to raise it's market value. There is not much privacy, for them either. 

The rain is relentless tonight. Once barking proud dogs, they now lay cowed in the street-lit shed. I wake many times in and out of various lives of questionable form and meaning.

For a moment I am the same as I was staring through that window. In what could be a memory, or could have been a dream, shadows of women are storing herbs and grains in large jars which slowly dissolve into the cupboard. They only emerge during sunset when the dusk intrudes on both sources of light. 

I am the same as I was basking in the ray of light coming through the large sliding glass door. I am sharing the warm spot with Sambi, our black Labrador Retriever. Her name had been Sambo until my mom was told that it had a negative racial connotation. I was once envious of her four-legged life. I needed to understand her secret, take in the subtle exhilarants waiting beyond the backyard fence near the abandoned buildings and warehouse alleyways. Maybe dig a hole in the backyard and relish the cool earth on a hot day. 

Vines hang down from the ceiling. Little plants are being raised in tofu containers and the water is draining through the punched holes. The electric light is a surrogate father until they peek through the window and delve into the universal soil of their kin.

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