Staring out of a window
into a green and orange world of half burnt trees
from inside the striped walls of a temporary “home,”
I would shake and worry.
Who knows why,
but something about even the slightest sway of the distant tree would frighten me.
Now I beg to see the topiary dance in the wind from that window.
Now I beg that those striped walls would surround me again,
for temporary is something we always miss,
once it’s gone.