January 23, 2011 | Leave a Comment

Looking through some long-neglected pane of glass.  The house it was a part of stood by the edge of a declining precipice on the rim of an evening, lightly fog-shrouded valley.  Many of the windows were broken, but not this one.  Much of the old, yellow-white siding was rotting, and one side of the structure sagged into a crumbling fieldstone foundation,  like settling into the aging arms of one you love.

I wondered who had lived here and how long ago.  Were there voices of children, man, wife, uncles, brothers, cousins?  If so, were they mostly happy voices?  Had they stood and looked out through this very same window at the dreamlike valley opened like a warm blanket below?  If so, had they also wondered, as I was wondering, about the peace I felt in looking out?  The peace so unexplainably powerful it made me want to shout with joy and cry sad tears at the same moment?

Frosty with the approaching night was the vision, like so many interwoven with the past.




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