Poetry| Parenting | Love

Little windows line the hall.
From the kitchen,
To the living room,
The corridor leads to every room in the house,
On one side are doors,
The other little windows,

They used to look out into the meadow,
But you painted them one afternoon while I worked.
I was raised in that meadow,
The flowers painted the scene,
The wind kept it alive.

I know the rabbits and frogs,
The bugs are my friends,
I fed the ants as a boy,
The birds perch on our roof.

And now there is paint.
You painted,
Mermaids,
And knights of old,
You painted flowers,
Frogs,
Ants,
And the birds on the roof.
You painted me with the rabbits,
You painted memories over the future,
And now there are no more little windows.

I do not yell,
I am not angry,
You are an artist.
Your art has covered the fridge,
The walls,
Ceilings,
Floor,
It is only fitting that the hall is now covered.
I’ll look out the windows, and I will love you,

My artist,
My future,
My child.

. . . . .

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