The Wind-Swept Side of the Window Pane

On the wind-swept side of the window pane
Where the rustling leaves flow and ebb;
A symphony of rustic harmony by an everchanging mosaic of tangled twigs and bristling branches;
Gamut of colors and shapes from the floral blossoms released into the welcome embrace of the open air;
Music in every pebble,
In every rocky sheath,
In every breaking wave below the overhanging trees.

I reach out for them
Through the melting glass on the vanishing pane.
Reaching for the running breeze.
The inviting running breeze.

While behind me
I hear the potpouri of merry sounds,
Of singing crowds immersed in festival.
Smiling faces, bubbly laughter, and voices.
Always the voices,
Never-ending voices.
Sweet-harsh, myriad, pulsating voices.
Sounding, sounding.

Yet never beyond the glass,
Into the running breeze,
On the wind-swept side of the window pane.