Greg Anka

a small attic window
somewhat facing south
off slightly to the right
frosted in evening darkness
softly lit from late sun yawning
cold glass in cracking white wood
relentlessly eyes peer through
seeking, offering a question
so hopefully spoken
small cautious fingers
cupping over an open mouth
exhale into flowing lines
a warm and subtle breath
wrapped in a young skin
an emptiness waits
paused in rumination
guiding itself blindly
a seated shrunken child
on a barren field brown in slumber
wind placed snow puddles
creating mosaic abstracts
melding into the mind
as anything it wants to be
such a grief and anguish
squeezing out life
in awkward restless fits

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© Melt Magazine 2004