Window

 The glass is cold against my palm,

A transparent wall between the now and then.

Outside, the garden wears a silver calm,

But I am looking through it, seeking when.

I see a girl in a cotton dress,

Chasing the ghosts of the summer sun,

Her laughter caught in a wilder tress

Before the slowing of the years  had begun.

The maple tree was just a sapling then,

Its branches reach for a sky of blue,

I held a secret and a graphite pen,

And sketched the world as if it all were new.

The ghost of my ace, etched with time.

The streetlights hum a hollow tune.

The shadow of the swing set under the moon.

The streetlamp flickers, casting long-gone corners 

where I used to wait and dream.

The shadows stretch and pull into the night,

Like stitches coming loose at every seam.

I see the porch light burning for a ghost,

The door left unlatched for a younger self,

The things I loved—and the things I lost—

Now dusty trophies on a mental shelf.

The condensation blurs the edges now,

The garden fades into a mist of grey.

I trace a circle, wondering just how

the girl I was 

became the woman I am today.

The view remains, though the seasons shift and turn,

A silent witness to the bridge I crossed.

There is a quiet, steady peace to learn

In loving what remains of what was lost.

by Laurie Perrone

Cpyright 2026