From The Sill

My potted plant sits 

On the faded oak sill 

And gazes intently 

From three stories up

With far more

Than three stories 

To tell

Cobbled stone leaks

Of brothers and sisters 

Alike, under lavish decor

Of swirled gangrene,

It watches, intent

And with awe,

The blur

 

And when one says

"Come" and another

"I shall", Echo locks

Arms with the pane

And holds against her

Chest, a lost form

Of mirth

And it looks on

As still worlds cross

And look to me,

A beacon, a dance

Of flooding pastel.

I sit, a potted plant,

And watch.