Florentine Sill | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Florentine Sill | Previous Challenge Entry
By david perez
12/14/06
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From the mourning window the pane does oppress but the soul fights to be so much more. Have I loved? My red rose is now pink. Will she cry for ever? Has midnight or the snow whitened the fine red flower? Are the years like many flowers and their tears? If so, does rosewater solidify at the cold, cold glass? Have I visited mine own ghostly shadow, died a little to see if gray night falls opaque in the gentle mirroring of birthdays, hers and mine. From there I see life mosaic, parked like cloud above Florentine sill.

     I see it still, that a city by any other name would not be Alexandria. I see, that I am a pane in this winter dew night, froze to forever or at least one month longer than expected, gifted per light astream, through her hair. Watch how it traps the green grass, remnants of warmer times. I’ve treated her....badly. For she was to be nothing so much as to be wintered lot, for parking and no pay, and loathe to be nothing but summer, more cars and more noise. She has a place for everyone where I’ve seen only self.

     Some have, greater men than I have, seen fire up on the moon, glowering o’er the bay, soft in her silent song, ‘On the Dock...’ and in no way, listening, glistening to be more than moment cast. But I am perennial light, spent, now drifted to death. I have wondered, looking at the moon, if day was really meant this way, or if night were an hour and hours would flood like storm on the ocean of people saying, “Look at that man, and his beautiful wife. Maybe some day he’ll treat her right.”

     I can love. She is the heroine not sung. I wander, in her putting up with me, is there ever a return home? To steal hope, I see what I was meant to be, for waves of me are still moved by her. She is Moon, my moon, no more. There is hope, though at my own doing, I, Sea, have been alone, a single breath, a single man, one grit of sand: salted I to water, terra firma, forming tear, watered plant, watered like whale, beached, on the bank, at the brink, of destiny, of life and life. I wallow, but turn and see her quiet like some unsung song. Yet she is song, and stronger than I. She is redemptive and pink. She is the flower at my window.

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