Poems of my Mind

Blossom in December,

and as far as I remember,

hurricanes in October

are not all that bizarre

to see from the

windows of the

place I call home.

We gawk on Friday night

at the sun's overbearing light.

Blinding; burning like the drinks

we've yet to consume. Please

dont play the same

old songs again

when we go out.

These windows, patterned with rain,

they show many things that wither away

with the passing time.

But the steady line

across the sea

for all to see

remains the same.

Friends and strangers pass by

this lookout we share; we all spy

on neighbouring windows

over the street. I wonder

what they have seen

while they have been

by their window.