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.


  • FredPeyer

    Love these last two lines, Alex! And how many times does something temporary turn into something permanent!

  • Lorna

    And everything is temporary! Good poem.

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