A Reflection out the Window

One summer I did not go back. Rainstorms have burst above me but flowers also, in bloom. Sometimes craters, too, from bombs dropped, first in fiery reds and yellows but later when settled, in mundane brown mud. I am still walking. I still watch the sunrise, each spring blossom is the delight I always dreamed of when ensconsed within the classroom walls, and the ice still perpetuates in wonderful patterns on window panes, but I am looking in, not out, and my gloves are threadbare.

flowers — 
such beauty
such pain


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