the window

just a short poem about time essentially

There it is, the window where she stood,
Where she turned to sunlight with a smile,
A red sun burning in her hair.
There it is, that simple opening
covered in solid-liquid, glistening.
As I see it, and an empty sky beyond,
I hear faintly deep within my mind
The soft melody of a song;
With the song words, images, a smell
Wet, green glowing spring,
All flowing from the song.

The window is no more, the smile gone
Yet still the song lingers on,
Spoken by old men in whispered words,
Who fear to break a fragile hold
On the near forgotten tumult of the young.
Was she had, or not, or left to be?
Did they love through life's long misery?
Or part in emotional throes, violently?
It matters not; she's dead, departed, dust,
And his memory is fogged with rust,
Two nameless souls in a faceless crowd,
Carrying hidden thoughts of a green day,
A stolen embrace, loves gentle caress
A careless smile and lonely duress.