Was a cold winter’s day and there’s nothing to do.

Same as yesterday, nothing’s new.

So I took a trip to the attic to look for words and a view.

The crisp winter color of sky and water, reflected in deep icy blue.


The cobwebs hang heavy, there’s nothing new to explore.

Cold and flustered I stumbled back to the steps and slammed the door.

I went back downstairs and took some time to reflect.

Those things worth finding shouldn’t be that hard to detect.


Unless of course what seems lost, was never really had.

Though loses always remembered, it’s the forgotten that make us sad.


I went back upstairs where memories go to rest.

Pushing through the spider’s webs, to that place I like best.

It’s just a seldom seen pane of glass that compares to no other.

It’s a picture perfect painting, painted in the seasons changing color.


I sat upon a shaky box hiding something long forgot.

Steamy breath fogged the glass creating what can’t be bought

I viewed the shifting shades of pinks and blues that end every day.

Then I shared the chill with the fading sun falling into the bay.


Turning from dusk to shades of infinite grays with shadows intertwined.

I lightly step, hands outstretched and leave my little pane behind.