By Emilee Petersmark

I live in a world full of windows--

stained glass and varying sizes--

hidden silently in apprehension.

In the dark with shutters drawn

over frosted, dirty glass,

boarded over with plywood

under the excuse of a disaster--

a stone through the frame--

but secretly to keep the light out.

Through open windows I can see

with surprising clarity,

the day as it is,

without suspicious cracks or

butter scratches.

Stones may fly through

with the biting insects--

meeting no defenses or barriers--

into the tender innards of my room.

But I invite you to crawl inside

through my open windows

and warm your cold hands

on the sun-kissed sills.