People have ideas when looking out of windows.
Like writers and poets and Francis Scott Key.
Windows are a magic mirror.
That’s why we liken them to eyes, and God
And, why cats like them so.
But windows have never done much for me.
They do not make me sad
I do not feel melancholy
I look out of windows when I am being ignored.
Or when I’m too afraid to Express my thoughts
Or when I’m tuning out the whistleblower
My head fills with song lyrics, or the surface level thought.
“The leaves are changing”
“I should buy a new sweater”
I spend time looking out of windows.
But I’m no writer, or poet, or Francis Scott Key.
But everytime I look out of a window I feel the frame is more sophisticated than I am.
Like I have to have a gift to see.
A key or a ticket to escape.
For once, I would like something remarkable to happen.
I would like windows to do for me what they do for everyone else.
So that I too can liken them to eyes and god and feel like a cat
So that I too can think of lines that people will quote so often.
Like tread softly because you tread on my dreams,
or to define is to limit, or something about bombs in America.
A poem by Nia Anthony