Exiting the Metaphor

Gazing at my computer screen, it occurs to me
There is more than glass between me and the world
Click through or step through

The prickle of winter on my skin
followed by the clatter of snow shovels,
quick inhales of pointy air

The cold underbelly of a spring day,
squishing through new mud to get to the sun,
everything too tender to touch

A puff of green air building body for the heat ahead,
the slide of a summer afternoon drenched with the drone of cicadas,
the edges of grilled dinner oozing from the neighbors

A festival of caramel, smoke, rust, sherbet sunsets
creeping into the day,
enrobing us in fire for the nights ahead

a world that is there whether I open the window or not.

Clearing Out

The trees on my street are finally showing off
Glinting orange, gold, reds from coral to brown
My hair is falling out
I did not know this was a symptom of menopause
But it makes sense — my hair mimicking
Some monk in the margin of a manuscript
The pages embellished with carmine and lapis
Our eye drawn to those lines
Not the curve of my hip, my throat
The leaves shower me with a new blast of color
And the view from my window opens