Whether through windows of time
or a window of glass
we peer through,
maybe through the windowed pane
eyes of the artist who is
long gone yet
lives on
displaying legacy image for us
to view
through our window of time
into his memory of love
through her yielding to the pangs
of love
the pain of love
Yeah, windows golden with memory
they are
moments of love so
dear to him and her and now
to us
golden memories they are
images of what carried them forward
into future or carry us
backward into reflection
backward into history
where precious intricacies of the human mind and hand were
crafted for us or
assembled for us
to see,
to view
through a glass darkly
through barriers of time
or glass
or gates of iron or the
gates
of Vienna
when the invaders had been turned away
and later where
the artist lived and breathed and
loved
and left a gift, their moment of prescious love
which came to be their
golden moment, and later his gilded
memorial of love for us to
peer into,
before the gates could close again.
Smoke
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