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My window is the world.

A patch of light illumines
the Autumn leaf,
shimmers its veins,
its seminal understanding
of life in its transitional story,
I had two raspberry eyes and ten mulberry
fingers as a child,
I grew until I weighed myself down;

I picked flowers.

Bees and butterflies
looked over my shoulder, darted in and out
amoung the splendor of Crayola colours,
I gave them to my mother with little thought
for lonely dandelions or the scent of fields
abundant with clover beyond my small child's world.

I can not withhold my breath
for these things seen and unseen,
for there is peace in my valley, and my
valley is resplendent with an all-pervading mystery.

I am more than a voyeur. I am neither lost nor abandoned, I am
the all-seeing eye,
I find my home neither here nor there.
I am ever reemerging.

I am the Lover and the Beloved, a thought that is my creation.
Not alone, am I. My window is my world.

Last few words: ... ait=0href= My inspiration when I wrote this a couple of days ago. I waited to post it, sometimes I need to know if it's relevant beyond the day my poems are written.
Editing stage: 


I can see why you were inspired to write such a compelling poem. I got locked in on the line “I picked flowers.” As a boy I gathered all the Tiger Lilies I could carry out of the meadow and brought them home to my mother. She was pleased of course but I noticed that next year the meadow had few lilies for I had picked them all and the seeds fell around the vases instead of germinating in the ground.


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