Looking through a window


I sit here looking

through a window

on the outside

looking in.

A couple of old flower pots

bottles of detergent

other odds and ends that don't have any other place to go

except for the window sill of a laundry room.

All around me there is noise

Buses and cars pass by on the street

The air conditioner whirs

The garden hose in front of me is slowly dripping.

I can just make out through the dusty pane of glass,

and old vase

and in it a bouquet of paper flowers;

the tissue paper is faded

the flowers are drooping

(lack of water?)

but a bright patch of colour here or there suggests they were brighter once;

that they knew brighter times.

Where is the child who made those flowers

who painstakingly put each flower onto a pipe cleaner

and wrapped them all in paper?

She has not faded along with her flowers,

But she has hidden,

still making paper flowers,

hoping one day to let their brightness emerge once more.

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